


A Caged Bird

by OAC_QI, Rogercat



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angband, Changed Feelings, Escape, F/M, Fall of Gondolin, First Age, Friendship, Gen, Gondolin, Healing, Male-Female Friendship, Mystery, Slavery, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OAC_QI/pseuds/OAC_QI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/pseuds/Rogercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been months since Maeglin returned from Angband, that much is clear. Changed beyond all recognition. No longer brooding, nor stalking that which never was his, he instead waits patiently. For with his escape came another — a girl of enigma, inexplicably wise yet naive. His emotional state seems dependent on her slow recovery. Who is she, and what really happened to the Mole?</p>
<p>co-written between Rogercat and Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a love-story, doomed by Fëanor's Oath.

~X~

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_Remembrance_ **

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_"The past beats inside me like a second heart."  
_ ** _—John Banville_

Darkness.

The darkness of underground, twisting tunnels of black rock.

Burning heat.

The ever-present heat from Thangorodrim's three volcanoes, beneath and within which Angband was built, alongside the dry air filled with despair, decay and death. Distant screams of terror and pain from the slaves echoed from faraway places, amplifying and enhancing the subterranean isolation from the outside. An endless labyrinth for anyone who tried to escape.

Searing pain.

The crack of the ever-present whip and the lash against tortured flesh, which could no longer be felt the longer it went.

"That is enough."

Sauron, the lieutenant Maia of Angband, was displeased. Very displeased, especially as he currently had orders from Morgoth to force a new prisoner to tell everything of what he possibly could know about Gondolin, the hidden Elven Kingdom that was a thorn in the side of the Dark Lord. And yet this prisoner refused to reveal anything despite the pain.

Yet.

"Sir?" asked an orc soldier in slight confusion, still holding a bloody whip ready for a new lashing on the chained Elf's whipped back. Only a pair of ragged black leggings, half-stiff by old dried blood, was protecting the prisoner's modesty, not that anyone would have cared. Death came for all, naked or clothed, in this place, at the will and whim of the master now observing the Elf.

"He will be unable to tell me anything about the Hidden City if he dies from blood loss after our tender care," Sauron mused, forgetting the orc was there. Then he snapped his fingers. "Bring him down and toss him into a cell for some healing before a new interrogation. Get one of the slave healers to sew up the wounds on him."

Turning suddenly, his flame-coloured hair flying about his fair yet cruel features, Sauron left the torture chamber. It reeked of blood and burnt flesh, testaments to his determination to wring anything— _anything_ —from his prisoner, who lay unconscious. Obeying his orders, and grunting in the Orcish tongue, two large orcs took down the Elf from where he hung, though none-to-gently.

" _Ah…_ "

The prisoner moaned and gasped unconsciously in pain as his arms were grabbed, and dragged from the torture chamber down a long corridor, which also served as part of the dungeons for the slaves who dared to be disobedient or refused to be broken. It was a favorite place for Sauron when not on duty serving his Dark Master. After a short time of walking one of the orcs stopped and shoved open a door, metal clanging against rock.

"Get him in."

The unconscious prisoner was tossed carelessly on a thin bed of straw, and out of old security rules, a chain was locked around one of his ankles. It was unnecessary—in his weakened state the prisoner could hardly move, let alone escape. His black hair, greasy from sweat and fear, hung about in a curtain over his face hiding him from his tormentors.

"I wonder which one of the slave healers will come…" one of the orcs grunted as they locked the cell, bolt sliding home.

"I believe I know which one…" the other answered with a sneer.

The first orc laughed as they departed.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

With a gasp Maeglin awoke. Eyes wide he scanned the room briefly, terrified he was back in that prison. Then a soft, sweet-smelling breeze blew in from the window, and he fell back upon sheets stained with sweat, relieved. He was home in Gondolin, where he was safe from the Dark Lord, free but scarred.

From where he lay, he could see the room cloaked in a soft veneer of twilight, dark-blue against the white walls; there were no dark shapes to trouble him here, the furniture quietly illuminated. Trellised screens separating the outdoors from in shone with moonlight, a gentle reminder of freedom. Only his mind refused to let him go.

After lying there motionless for a few indecisive seconds he rose and left, jumping as bare feet touched the cool floor.

Sleep had fled from him as of late, ever since he was released from the healers' intensive care and allowed to move about on his own without drugs. The scars left in his back would never truly go away, a permanent crosshatching, until the day his  _fëa_  departed for the Halls. Phantom, residual pains from his months-long imprisonment had decreased with each passing day, but the nightmares remained.

Maeglin left his room and went in the garden. Here the breeze picked up and blew refreshingly upon his tired face, somehow easing his mind. The tinkling of the great Fountains in Gondolin's square came to his ears as from a great distance, despite the fact his section of the King's palace overlooked the square. Sitting down on the wall dividing the garden from open air, he looked out across to the great valley surrounding the city, and the protective Echoriad.

His nightmares varied in length and guise—but they all ended with the loathsome face of the Enemy's lieutenant watching him, glee etched across that beautiful face. The one before this most recent nightmare involved Sauron slowly walking the streets of a burning Gondolin, two flaming creatures flanking him, and laughing at a frozen dream-Maeglin as an army filled the city. At times he often wondered if it was the Dark Master reaching out to him, playing with his mind. At others he knew it was the pain of recovery.

But this one… this one was different.

He remembered a kind face looking over him—his mother Aredhel?, long dead at the hands of his father. This face was obscured by a dark cloak, with tendrils of scraggly hair escaping it. The hair changed colors. At times it was a dull red, like the Sun as she descended below the Western rise; at others it was dark, like his mother's; a few it was a pale gold, like Idril's.

The thought of Idril made his heart ache only slightly.

Ever since his return he had been sequestered with the healers day in, day out, and had not been able to see her. Or her father. In fact the healers warned death upon anyone who interrupted their work. It was then little surprise his former, forbidden passion for her had waned greatly—so great, in fact, there wasn't even a stirring of his loins, during the few moments of very intense longing. Before his capture anyway.

Now he couldn't muster up any kind of thought for her, except a detached sort of admiration. It was a little troubling, he thought; then shook his head, pain only a twinge. No, it wasn't troubling at all. Perhaps his imprisonment was, in a strange, cruel turn of Eru's hand, the very thing needed to cleanse his forbidden lust. Hard to think of a woman when you were fighting to keep your very sanity in the deepest pits of Angband.

Movement caught his eye, and he turned toward it.

Over across the palace, overlooking another part of Gondolin, was another garden balcony and attached room, slightly higher by many feet; but far enough away he could see it with no strain to his head. A slightly stooped figure had appeared, looking at the moon. No, he realized, it wasn't stooped at all, just couldn't straighten up properly despite the many tries by the healers. It cast aside its hood and a vision of dark hair caught his eyes, and recognition flashed.

This was the other reason why his strange longings for Idril had vanished almost completely, replaced by something akin to protective paternality. Something had came over him, even in Angband's despair, that forced him to find reason to live. He had come so close to breaking down. But then she had come, and even under her rags there was the promise of something beautiful, wasted in the darkness, that deserved life—even if at the cost of his own.

But who she was, her parentage and birth, that eluded him. Their few conversations in Angband had been very short, save that one night, but that was scant. And here in the Hidden City, where it was safe, nobody but the healers could even approach her.

Their first meeting he remembered with a grimace, even as he watched her lithe form bend over a plant, seemingly lost in its fragrance. That memory, in fact, proceeded his most recent nightmare…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

The first thing he felt as he slowly returned to consciousness was something wet on his face. That and the feeling of something that could only be a needle in his lacerated back. Fearing that it meant the start of another torture he panicked and made a frantic attempt to move away. Tried to, for Sauron had been unmerciful in his whipping, and it hurt too much to move. "Let go of me!" he cried.

"Be still, Outside-born!" a harsh voice answered him, its accent rough. Eyes wide, fearing it was another orc, Maeglin redoubled his efforts to get away from it, ignoring the agony of his reopening wounds. The creature attending to him forced itself down on him, trying hard to restrain him. "Be still!" it hissed. Maeglin ignored and only rocked himself harder. Finally giving up trying to squash him the healer pressed a painfully thin, claw-like hand against his neck and pressed down. The sharp pain penetrated to his fear-fogged mind and he involuntarily yelped.

"If you w—wish to live," the creature hissed again, hot breath close to his ear, "you will b—be still. Do you w—want the guards?"

He didn't comply.

Then stars exploded in his head, as his head roughly made contact with the ground. The force of the blow was enough to stun him enough for the irritated creature to restrain him. Or tried to. It was clearly very tiny, and thin, and he was able to shift it slightly. This was no orc or else he would have been knocked hard again.  _Or maybe it is a smaller goblin!_  his terrified mind imagined. Desperately he prayed it wasn't another torturer in the guise of a healer.

"L—Lay still! Or I w—w—will not be a—a—able to fix th—the wounds! And m—master S—Sauron will not b—b—be pleased i—if I have to use more water than necessary!" the creature whispered to him, force somehow diminishing the longer its speech went. It sounded almost pathetic.

_A goblin with speech disorder?_  Yet Maeglin quickly had other things to worry about as he could only groan faintly in protest, being too weak to do anything besides hissing in pain as his wounds were sewn together. Painkillers seemed to be unheard of in Angband. Then again, the Dark Lord cared not a whit for his thralls.

"T—Try n—not to m—m—move too much or it will s—start bleeding a—again…" ordered the healer, and he obeyed this time. Satisfied the strange healer continued its work, bone needle darting in and out of his back, lacing up the bloody wounds. Maeglin felt rough cloth upon his back being tied on the worst of the wounds. Despite not being very sanitary these bandages were the best slaves had to use, and this one was no worse off than the others. He mentally groaned in disgust, for he remembered the clean, soft and fluffy bandages specifically woven together for the purpose. On top of that he also remembered how stark a difference there was between this dank dungeon and the clean, bright halls of Gondolin.

Ah, Gondolin! The Hidden City which had seemed so much like a prison now was the best of havens. Why had he been so stupid as to wander too far from the protective circle of the Echoriad? Even more damning was he had neglected to watch his surroundings, having grown compliant in safety. How could he have been so stupid as to walk in that blindingly obvious trap set by the orcs?!

The healer, oblivious to his mental ravings, continued its work. A twinge of pain lanced through is back and he groaned. " _Damned goblin_ …" he gasped.

If he had expected any punishment to that whisper, it never came. Instead, his head was lifted up and was fed some kind of drink. It made him instantly drowsy, even through the fog of pain, and he fell asleep.

"Why cannot the Outside-born ever understand that, here in Angband, their former lives and status are worth nothing…?"

With a quiet sigh, the slave healer packed the items together in a small bag and requested the guards to open the cell door. As the healer passed by, one of the orcs started to make a commanding sign, which would be unthinkable outside Angband in all other circumstances, but another quickly stopped it as torchlight thrown off from the walls glinted on a copper collar. This collar, which the slave wore around its neck, was a sign that it was protected by Sauron's direct orders; and to molest one such marked was to earn a lingering death. This was a privilege few of those who wore the iron collar ever came close to.

Sensing danger from the orcs, possibly from their sudden movements, the cloaked slave revealed a small dagger in one skinny hand pointing down as a warning. It was well-known among the orcs that the slave healers were trained in gelding, both for male slaves who turned out to be causing too much trouble but still were too valuable in working to be put down, and orcs as punishment if Sauron or the Dark Lord ordered it.

"The O—Outside-born slave w—w—will need to be c—checked every d—day in order to have th—those wounds on his back hea—healed properly b—before master S—Sauron calls for a new h—hearing w—with him…" came the shaky order.

The orc captain of the guard here made a sketchy salute, unheard of for any slave but those marked by copper. The slave quickly bustled off, staying as far away from the soldiers as possible, and disappeared.

"You little whelp!" the orc captain sneered, stepping up to the orc who unthinkingly reached out to touch the slave. "You want your head on a pike?"

"No." The answer was raspy, but held fear.

"The Dark Lords—" The captain made a sign out of instinct "—would be most displeased if they hear you touched little Rûsa. Is that understood?"

"Yes," the other ground out.

Far away, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among the orcs, a pair of black, reflective eyes looked out from beneath a large hood, scanning the tunnel behind. Then she slipped into the passage that would take her to her quarters.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Rûsa cast a glance over her shoulder, sensing someone or something watching her. Nothing met her eyes but the quiet shadows of her room behind her. No orcs leered at her from her room, nor Sauron watching with a calculated smile designed to throw fear into a thrall's heart. She exhaled, letting out a deep sigh, and let her body sink next to the wall. Old habits died hard.

When the slave had told her of Gondolin, the Hidden City, she had thought him mad, for there was no place safe from Morgoth. Rûsa shivered at the very thought of the Dark One. The slave had insisted, telling her he had come from there, captured by an orc patrol, and all because he hadn't been watching his surroundings. He had told her of how the walls shone with reflected light from the Yellow Light, of how the city sparkled in the unimaginable day, and countless other wonders her mind could only just grasp at. Her only experience with the Yellow Light, now called the Sun, was the rare few times she was summoned by the command of Morgoth, and taken to tend to some poor wretch in the heights of Thangorodrim. But then everything looked dull and blighted. Here, things were bright and…

And…

She couldn't find any word. If she knew, it escaped her.

Turning her attention back to the city, she examined it from the safe confines of the garden. It was as unlike Angband as the slaves were from Sauron. Bright, clean, open, and beautiful. Those were the only words she could describe it as, for her knowledge of all the wondrous things she saw was limited in the extreme. What she saw was brief, her sensitive eyes, used to near-total darkness for an unimaginable time, unable to look even at a nearby flower in the vase standing next to her healing bed.

The Gondolin healers, recognizing this, shrouded her room in black as she recovered, and made special noises to let her know they were not orcs. Soft snatches of song from outside helped calm her nerves. A lady with hair of living gold often came to her, ensuring herself that Rûsa was fed, and spoke to her of mysterious things that existed outside of her knowledge. When it came time to learn how to walk—Rûsa was horrified to learn that her stooped crawl was  _not_  how the Outside-born moved—the lady in gold hair was there with her, every step of the way. It was the same for learning how to adjust to living on her own, and the breaking of many prominent fears, before she was released. The lady with gold hair was patient and kind, understanding Rûsa's mistakes and trouble, and helped her overcome it.

Now, here she was, many months later (as the Outside-born reckoned time), sitting outside alone in a strange city that did not, quite yet, feel like home. It was a marvelous transition. But many submerged phobias remained, the most visible broken or tamed by the healers and the lady with gold hair. Those would take longer to deal with, they told her.

_But how long_? her mind cried. To that she had no answer.

For now, her old habits of being silent, watching and waiting before acting, would take precedence here. These people had done many things unthinkable in Angband, and Rûsa was not yet sure she could trust them. There always lurked in her mind a fear that this would turn out to be a dream, and that she had actually collapsed in some dungeon of Angband, overwhelmed by her work, dying as her spirit finally gave in.  _Was it a dream?_

_Of course it isn't, Rûsa dear,_ another voice answered.

She flinched rather than jumped, and quickly looked about. To jump in Angband meant at best a whipping. But here, no such danger presented itself. The author of that voice had come from her own mind, a memory.

That memory resolved into a face, a vision of white.

Rûsa visibly began to shake as recognition set in. This was the man who had told her of these strange things, of how freedom was possible. His name escaped her, but his face remained etched inside her mind as if with a brand. Slaves had no name save what the orcs called them, or clung to their old one out of desperation. Faces were easy to remember. Such as his.

The tales he told her ignited within a fire unlike any before. It was something she had never really felt before, surpassing even the times when she lay with a sickness unto death. Rûsa had to see this outside world, free of Morgoth's twisting, and be free. Nevermind that these were the tales of a desperate man who would eventually died, she would live to see it. To find this city of Elves who had escaped orc patrols and even Sauron's mystic sight, and escape.

And now here she was, and not quite sure of what to do anymore.

The lady with gold hair had told her nothing was expected of Rûsa; she was a sick woman who needed her rest, and as such was practically forbidden by the King to do  _anything_ but  _relax_. Even her healing arts they had no need of, older and wiser healers already fulfilling that role. Still, she had to do something, or else she would go mad for fear of punishment.

If only she could see that strange slave again, wherever he was. With the things he told her there were words of comfort entwined, that she needed not to fear unreasonably. It was a strange notion, to say things like that in Angband, but he had meant every word of it; and had held true to his promise. Now all she wished was to see him again, to be protected from not orcs but this strange new world she was in.

He was, remarkably, the only person she trusted. Not even the lady with gold hair, despite her gentle friendliness and patience, had inspired such feelings in her.

They were to be feared.

But which fear were they? Those of Angband, or something completely new?

Rûsa had no answer as she looked out over the sleeping city. The Moon's brightness obscured the stars, the only light her eyes were comfortable with. Yet not as blinding as the Sun, nor overtly annoying if she did not look directly at it. Something much like her own situation here—neither good nor bad, only wariness. Across the buildings of white, the fountains of crystal, and towers of stone, lay the great walls of the Hidden City, deemed impregnable. Beyond them a vast circle of greenery, in which the nation of Gondolin thrived. Beyond that the circle of the Echoriad, its high peaks covered with a whiteness she had never seen before.

There was something about this place that, for all of its strangeness and alien nature, seemed to conspire to place her at ease. She didn't know what it was, and that was frightening.

But what she felt was peace.

Eventually she would come to know that.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Deeper in the city, close to the palace of the King, Rog of the House of the Hammer of Wrath toiled away in one of his forges. Memory too clung to his thought, but of a different sort. It was more detached, for his long years had left little, if any as they healed, marks upon his soul. The ringing of the hammer upon anvil helped keep his focus steady.

Earlier that day the healers had requested he make a more permanent corset for the little not-quite-a-woman in their care. All of the others, temporary, had been ugly and hurt her. Something about them made the girl shrink away in fear, and constantly fidget when they were on, preventing the healing from going forward. He knew what to do, fashion a special one that would be permanent yet unobtrusive.

Each hammer stroke brought back distant recollection.

Cuiviénen, his distant childhood. Not many remembered he was old enough to have come from that dim time, when the Elves walked free under starlight. This was before the Enemy, as Morgoth was known. Then came the distant terrors of the night—the black rider of the North, the shadow-shapes of fear. Elves who wandered alone quickly disappeared, and sometimes whole groups were snatched. They began to cluster together for protection, knowing the rider couldn't come upon such a large host.

It was then the earliest beginnings of the Noble Houses of the Quendi were formed, families staying together. Their chieftains who were to become kings in Valinor began to fight back against the rider; they organized parties to go look. Rog remembered. He was old enough to go with those crude semblances of armed hosts—no more than Elves armed with fire-sharpened sticks and slings—to search for those lost.

A tear fell and sizzled as he recalled the party overrun once they were a distance in the dark forest. The rider stunned them, then whisked them off. He remembered awakening in a cold and black place. One by one he watched as his friends and family disappeared into the night. For how long he stayed there, he couldn't remember. Then the Salvation came. The entire prison shook as an earthquake ripped through it. Little did he know the host of the Valar had marched upon the Enemy. In the confusion he and those still surviving escaped, and fled.

Somehow they ended up back with the others, huddled as they watched the strange lights flashing and listened to the sounds echoing in the north. Then a noble light shining. A Vala, Oromë. The Great Journey, free of dark riders or shadow-shapes. Valinor.

The Years of Bliss came more distantly than his earliest recollections. The only thing that came to him before the Darkening was a mane of red, this he remembered. Then Exile, and now here.

Pulling the corset from the anvil, and inspecting its rough form—the brace to eventually straighten her back—he set it aside to cool after dipping it. He started work on the leather straps gathered beforehand for the brace. Rog wasn't a man for deep introspection. He had little reason to do so. Most Elves were. They refuse to remember the Exile's true meaning, believing in their hearts the Valar were too slow. The words spoken that night still rang true even now.

But now…

He wasn't sure.

Maeglin's return had brought something back to the surface. Perhaps the dangers of fighting the Dark Lord on their own. Or its foolishness.

Or maybe it was that helpless little  _girl_ cradled in the boy's arms.

He remembered the patrol running across them. The King had been worried by Maeglin's absence, and wondered if he was away at the mines. When it became clear the boy was nowhere to be found it was thought he had finally cracked and disobeyed, leaving for the Dwarves. Rog thought he knew what exactly had happened. He discreetly ordered some men to keep watch on the trails outside the Echoriad.

A few months later a bird on the wing told him they had seen someone approaching the outermost trails. Rog had dropped everything and took off. What he did not expect was how defeated and broken both looked. Maeglin still had a glint of his father's mad fire in his eyes, but he looked miserable. The girl he held in his arms, feet bleeding, legs obviously sore, was even worse. Seeing the collar about her neck had alarmed Rog, and he quickly relieved her of it—

—except that Maeglin took it as a sign of aggression and the girl screamed as they fought, forcing Rog and his men to subdue them both. Then, once the collar was broken and cast away, he brought them home.

Finishing his sewing he inspected the straps, then reached for the corset.

Yes, something definitely was not right. Maeglin wasn't that easily surprised, and for the Dark Lord to have taken him away meant troubling times.

Perhaps the Hidden City's days were numbered.

He intended to look into it, prepare for the worst. He would not allow Morgoth to destroy anything else. That poor girl was proof enough, awakening his ancient memories of Utumno. When the day was come he would talk to the King.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note from Rogercat: Being friends on Facebook, Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant and I can have some rather interesting talk at times. This story, a different twist of the beginning chapter in the story Painful Meetings in my Warg Rider-AU, was inspired after that I made a random image of the main character of the opposite genders as they are in that AU. Hope that you will enjoy reading this
> 
> Author's note from Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant: Actually, it was an idle plot bunny I made on one of her images, of which I completely have forgotten which one. Anyhow, this story will be crossposted, here on my Fanfiction-dot-net account and over on Rogercat's AO3 (Archive Of Our Own) account. This time, working with her will actually get my updates out a little faster.
> 
> Reviews are entirely welcome.


	2. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in the healing wing

~X~

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_First Steps_ **

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

" ** _One is never afraid of the unknown; one is afraid of the known coming to an end._** "  
― _Jiddu Krishnamurti_

The day slowly broke.

Bright rays shot over the mountains, transforming the white city with subtle shades of red while many yellows and oranges rose, scattering night's shadow. Finally the sky changed from twilight to azure as the Sun herself climbed from behind the clouds. Birds twittered and sang, welcoming the new day, and the air was scented with dew from the night. Gondolin started to waken.

Inside Rûsa's room there was hardly any change, except maybe a brightening of ambient light through the curtains. Rûsa herself was fast asleep, buried within her bed as a caterpillar in the cocoon, dead to the world.

A knock sounded, but she didn't stir.

Idril stepped in, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup atop, then closed the door. Making her way over as quickly as she could, Idril placed the tray on Rûsa's bedside table, then leaned over to wake the sleeper.

"Oh Rûsa, it's time to eat now," she said softly, patting the covers. The bedcovers stirred and Rûsa appeared, blinking. Half-blind she may be, her hearing was sharp and the fear of loud noises hadn't faded completely away. Her dark-red hair was messy and knotted, as she'd forgotten to braid it again, and Idril inwardly sighed, knowing how hard brushing it out would be for the both of them.

"It's time to eat," Idril repeated, moving aside to show the bowl. It was chicken soup, warm and fresh from the ovens; two fair-sized pieces of wheaten bread next to it. "Come on, let me help…" Reaching over, she hooked her arms around the still-groggy elf and helped her up, mindful of Rûsa's unnatural back.

"Th―Thank you…"

"Here," and a spoon was pressed into her hand almost as soon as it appeared. Rûsa stared at it for a long moment. Idril quickly took a seat upon the bed, rested the tray on her lap, and guided Rûsa's hand to the bowl. "You need your strength."

"Thank you," Rûsa murmured. In silence she ate, carefully bringing the spoon to and from her mouth, alternating with the bread. Idril watched her, mindful of her condition. At last, the final portion of bread had disappeared and the soup a warm memory. Rûsa looked at Idril, silently asking if there was more.

Idril only smiled, and instead put the tray to the side. Standing up she started maneuvering the elf from out the bed, all the while speaking softly: "It is time you started to learn to care for yourself again, Rûsa. You're almost strong enough to do simple things for yourself again."

"But… I…"

"None of that, Rûsa, I know you've been sneaking walks out in the middle of the night. You are clearly able. It is time to begin your exercises again."

"Oh no…"

"Don't worry, we have a new corset you'll like. It was made specially for you. You won't even feel it once it is on."

In this manner Idril walked her over to the washbasin, and started cleaning off the remains of sleep. Several candles had been lit, lighting the mirror. Rûsa screwed her face up, both at the stranger in the glass and at Idril's scrubbing. She still couldn't get used to the fact that she was allowed to be even clean. Of course she had to be moderately clean―by her standards―in order to perform her duties well; but the amount of washing put into just her face was.… strange and new. Almost unnatural, even.

Rûsa sucked in air as her hair was roughly pulled. Gripping the table she endured with little complaint as Idril tamed the tangles into something more comfortable, a fact she found also strange. "Comfortable" to her was foreign; practical and unobtrusive was what she'd like. Not this obsessive grooming.

"There, that looks better." Idril combed back the last strands before putting her brush away. "In addition to getting up on your own we're going to work on your eyesight. That sound good?"

Since Rûsa had no idea what that meant she didn't reply, instead looking at her reflection. A stranger stared back. In the light her hair looked more healthier than ever, the muted tones of red more vibrant. Her face had filled out, the cheekbones less sharply defined; now it was heart-shaped, and unfamiliar. She flinched as she touched it, feeling for herself.

Idril waited, watching her. It had been hard getting Rûsa to be more independent, more confident, and these small steps were working. But baby steps were not enough.

"Is… is this me?"

"Yes, it is, Rûsa," Idril answered, pulling the other's hair over an ear to better illustrate the face. "This is you, healthy and recovering."

Rûsa said nothing, still in awe. Seeing herself was nothing new, it was that she was only beginning to grasp that the person in the glass was the same elf as she was. And beside her was Idril, her long golden hair looking positively radiant beside Rûsa's dull red. She began to feel ashamed of herself, beside such a perfection of beauty.

"Come on," Idril said gently, pulling her away. "It is time to go to the healers. We've put them off long enough."

"My bowl―"

"Don't worry. Someone will collect it. Right now, let's get you dressed and ready." Idril guided her to the wardrobe, and began searching through.

Rûsa stood there, shivering slightly as Idril sorted various clothing from one another. Her thin nightgown, soft and warm underneath thick blankets, was ill-equipped to ward off the chill. Hugging herself Rûsa was reminded that however uncomfortable she felt now was but a stroll in the gardens compared to her former life. Angband shifted drastically between freezing cold and unbearable heat no matter the season, and the temperature difference spiked whether she left her too warm quarters for the frigid dungeons. Those poor slaves, slaving away in hellholes in exchange for sleepless nights, desperately trying to keep warm. It was a wonder any of them lived for longer than a week.

Her status among the slaves, even the healers, barely warranted enough to keep herself alive. Any and every spare scrap of cloth she could scrunge was sewn into her dress, which did double-duty as a blanket for when Angband's undying forges slacked off in addition to protecting her body during her daily work. It was barely enough. But then, the Master― _Sauron_ , she mentally poked herself,  _that's his name_ ―thought that was sufficient, and who was she to ask him for anything?

She had both feared and hated him, deep in her soul. Contact with the slaves reinforced it; even the orcs made her painfully aware of his malevolence.

Thank the Lady of Light there was that one…

"Aha, you'd look lovely in this."

She jumped as Idril turned, holding a simple cream-colored cotton dress, the bodice oak-brown. In her other hand was a long cloak of forest-green.

"Ye―Yes?"

"As we are getting on to Autumn, and the days grow colder, you'll need this. I thought the green would bring out your hair." Idril passed an approving look over Rûsa's mane. "I'd have loved to have known your parents, you have clearly inherited the best from them."

Rûsa silently obliged Idril to undress and clothe her, as always. This time her helper guided her arms in and out of the long sleeves, several times, until she understood she was to put it on herself. The buttons were more difficult but Idril laced her up with no complaint. Last came the cloak, which felt heavy.

"You look wonderful, my dear," Idril approved. "With enough time, and teaching, you will be walking like a lady. That stoop is unbecoming."

"Sorry…"

"Nonsense, it's not your fault. Just a life beyond your control. I can assure you, Rûsa, you look more healthy now than when you and Maeglin came in." Idril clucked as she remembered. "What a time, what a time. My husband threw a fit over it, and still does, urging greater caution, more patrols, vigilance, the works. As much as I love him, there's no stopping him from badgering the King dail―"

Idril's words were lost as Rûsa's mind latched onto the one thing that made sense out of it all: Maeglin. A flush started creeping up her cheeks as she remembered his kind face. For some inexplicable reason, be it the hand of the Guardian or some other variable, she had believed in what he had told her, had clung to that shard of hope. That she could become free.

More than that, she knew as Idril led her by the hand, was that Maeglin had stirred something within.

Something… dangerous.

But hopeful.

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"Mother? Mom, mom, mom!"

Eärendil, six-year-old prince and grandson of King Turgon, was not pleased, far from it. Once again, his mother was nowhere in the house after breakfast and, according to a kind servant, had gone to the healing wing as she had done nearly every second day the past few months. In his six-year-old mind this was  _not_  and never  _had_  been acceptable! He wanted his mom to stay with him and his father like before. But no, his dad hardly stayed in the house anymore, vanishing in the early mornings and returning in the dead of night. Eärendil only knew this when he stayed long past his bedtime, curious to know. And now his mother absented herself.

"Mom!"

The blond Half-elven knew where the healing wings were in the city; he was there sometimes for his health checkups so that he grew well. They weren't far, just a few streets and turns from the house. In fact it the very one which abutted the palace, as benefiting the grandson of a king, was his destination.

So sneaking into the healing gardens, where people could be seen sitting at times, Eärendil saw his mother's familiar golden hair from an upper-storey window. Elated, he was about to call for her when another figure appeared to stand beside his mother.  _Brown hair? No_ … _more like a really deep_ … red _hair_? Eärendil was confused, trying to place it in his memory. Red hair was unheard off in Gondolin; the only people he knew to have red hair were from his history books and family stories, the cursed Fëanorians, and he knew grandfather hated them. No other elf that he knew of had red hair, even those with brown hair were relatively rare.

The elf beside his mom seemed to be really young from her height, no more than a teenager—because of his dual upbringing, Eärendil knew elves aged more slowly than the  _atani_ , ninety years compared to the short twenty. Why was this girl in the healing wing?, his mind continued to wonder. She didn't look like anything was broken—she moved fairly straight, so that ruled out injured legs or arms. She  _did_ , however, look unnaturally pale to Eärendil, who was used to the slightly sun-tanned Gondolindrim; almost like Maeglin, his first cousin once removed, who was so pale as to resemble snow.

And this girl was, if possible, even paler than Maeglin, so white that she almost seemed like marble, which contrasted severely with her red hair and black eyes. Like a living version of those porcelain dolls he knew some of the court ladies liked to collect. This was worth investigation, his six-year-old mind resolved. Now he not only had to get to his mom but also to look at this girl.

"M—"

Eärendil didn't get to finish as a sudden shadow loomed over and scooped him up in a single motion.

"Come on, son, you shall not be late to your reading lessons," said Tuor, carrying his kicking son on his shoulder away from the healing wing.

"I want mom!"

"Your mother is busy, and she doesn't need a distraction, now come along."

"But dad—!"

"None of that, Eärendil. You will have all the time in Arda to be with her  _after_ your studies."

The Half-elven gave up and slumped dejectedly as his father carried him back to their home.

Pushing the door open, Tuor set his son down and sternly directed him to his table, where a large open book on Valinor lay unattended. "Start at chapter three,  _Of the Customs of the Valar_ , and keep reading until I say you can stop. Is that clear?"

"Yes, father."

"Good, begin. I'll check on you in an hour. The servants are instructed to keep you busy, so don't try to skim."

"Yes, father." Eärendil reluctantly turned to his reading. Satisfied, Tuor left the house and vanished.

After a few minutes had passed, when he was sure father had left, Eärendil snuck out again, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

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As the Sun climbed and the hours waxed into the afternoon, Maeglin rubbed at his eyes. He felt extraordinarily tired from the lack of sleep. His nightmares had left him with a sense of dread, and he worked like a mad man at every available moment, infected by Tuor and Rog's paranoia. Here in his office—inside the building called "House of the Mole"—he had a backlog of work from the mines that needed attention; and, recently, no little amount had been directed  _away_ from the usual destinations and instead toward the armories.

_Damn it…_  he thought, quil slipping from tired fingers.  _I may need one of the sleeping drugs again to be able to sleep the whole night without waking up at least once…_ Exhaling in annoyance, he pinched the bridge of his nose to stay focused. It wasn't the paperwork he needed to do, although it was considerable even with his second doing his best to help his Lord, nor was it the wavering of his eyesight that threatened to send him into a doze. No, it was the obsession, one which both alternately woke and drained him of energy.

Maeglin pushed himself away from his desk and bent over, supporting his head. The sunlight hardly helped matters.

"P—Pardon Lord Maeglin, but that was the final paper which needed to be signed for today," a timid voice at his elbow said. "If you are tired, maybe you should return to your chambers and rest?"

He opened his eyes and saw the large steaming cup of willowbark tea the maid held. "That, my dear, may be exactly what I need, thanks for the suggestion," he answered grumpily.

"Have a good day, my lord."

She curtsied before departing, leaving him to drink in peace. The maid wasn't put off by his tone, or the biting sarcasm he usually put into his comments; continual exhaustion and single mindedness had conspired to place him under great strain, and the servants had all gotten used to it ever since he came home. If he really got into a foul mood, then the servants knew what to put in his drink to calm him down. She'd be more concerned if he  _hadn't_ spoken irritably anyway.

Once he had finished the tea, grimacing at the taste, Maeglin rose from his chair. It wouldn't be any strong sleeping drug he planned to ask the healers, just something which helped him to fall asleep easier. Although elves weren't completely immune to drug addiction the healers knew better than to give anything that wasn't absolutely needed.

_With some luck, it will be a nice full night of sleep for once… ow!_

He hissed slightly in pain, both cursing the phantom pains in his scarred back and Sauron to the Void for it. He had gotten a far greater respect for Maedhros, the only female Fëanorian, and how she had managed to recover from her captivity in Angband after being freed by his maternal uncle Fingon, her cousin.

_I can still recall the shock of actually seeing her in person back at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and the surprise of all the scars she had…_ His own scars were nothing compared how wounded Maedhros had been, and she had refused to let her missing right hand become a handicap in everyday life or battle. Nevermind that her family was still hated by most in Gondolin, he now knew the extent of their pain and the lengths they'd go to exact vengeance.

Maeglin pulled his hood over his head to shield his eyes from the sharp sunlight, muttering against Turgon's impracticality of building Gondolin in all white, as he walked towards the healing wings. Any more paperwork could go to the Void, but he would have some rest before he killed himself.

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Meanwhile, Rûsa had managed to sneak away from Idril and the healers as they had been busy discussing something else.

She went to her favorite place in the healing wings, smiling faintly in pleasure as she passed stained windows which marked the entrance to the prayer hall. Inside, the glories of the Sun shone through the main rose window and lit the whole building in a rainbow swathe. Even if she was unable to see the colours properly, there was something about the windows which kept her coming back day after day. Maybe it was the light, or just the complete lack of fear or its remotest feeling inside.

Rûsa was not sure herself, but one thing was for sure: she had become enamored in honest wonder the very first moment she had seen those windows, so unlike anything she had known in Angband.

"It is so beautiful…" she breathed as her eyes closed to the muted sunlight warming her.

There were faint voices coming from the corridor outside the prayer chamber, but Rûsa couldn't tell if they were male or female. She could still recall her shame when the healers had found out that her hearing had been damaged from a lifetime of noise in Angband, and was dependent on her instincts to sense if someone was coming towards her.

"I will wait in the prayer chamber," one of the distant voices said, quite clearly as if the owner was right outside the door. "I always feel at peace in there."

"Yes, my prince."

Footsteps marked the newcomer's entrance; and then they stopped. Rûsa spun around on one heel, out of habit, seeking for a dark corner where she could hide.

But even with her instincts, she was not prepared for who it was. Even with her bad eyesight, Rûsa knew in her whole body who it was. Maeglin, the slave who gave her hope, who had helped her escape from Angband and taken her to Gondolin, just as he had promised despite that possibility she had thought it to be.

"You…  _Rûsa?_ " Maeglin gasped in surprise at seeing her here in the chamber, stunned by both seeing her at last after so many months and by how different she looked from when he last saw her. Rog had ripped her from his arms and hustled off, carrying the feeble stick of a girl into the healing wing, no doubt because of the burning fever she had acquired from the long journey toward Gondolin.

The white dress and green cloak served to enhance what shyness naturally hide; if she were any other elf, he would have assumed she was a young servant taking a small rest from work. But he knew better, especially with what he remembered how she used to look. Now she appeared her age—if looking like a young adult meant she was one. That still mystified him; but he had long since put it aside, and he was simply glad to see her again now that the shock was gone.

For her part she was struck speechless, truly at a loss for words. Maeglin looked resplendent in black, with silver embroidery lining and highlighting it, like some shade of night. It contrasted beautifully with his fair features, which for some reason seemed much more obvious now than it did in the dank dungeons. Part of her still believed this was all a dream—seeing him reinforced the reality. Frozen like a deer Rûsa could not move.

At long last she broke the silence. "My—My Lord," she began softly, ducking her head out of instinct.

Immediately he came over to her; so swift she hadn't felt it until he touched her.

Rûsa flinched imperceptibly, feeling him lift her head, but she did not resist. At such a close distance, she could see his dark eyes clearly, which mirrored her own. They looked tired, but also gladdened. This confused her. Why would he be glad to see her? He was important around here, while she was a nobody. Rûsa hadn't yet caught onto the principle of looking out for another, and being concerned for their wellbeing. Right now all she knew was that her sanctuary was compromised, and she didn't know how to react.

"There's no need," Maeglin said, smiling.

He gestured over to a bench beneath some flowering planters. When she didn't move, he placed a hand on her back and pushed her over gently; Rûsa went without complaint. Together they sat down, him waiting until she had comfortably settled herself before taking a seat.

"What brings you here, Rûsa?" he asked.

She bowed her head. This time he did not force her to look up.

"I wanted to be alone."

This was a lie; she wanted to be someplace quiet for a time, but never completely out of sight.

He chuckled. "So did I."

"Wha…?"

"Freedom from all of the paperwork," he clarified.

"Paper-work?"

"Yes. It is… a regretful but necessary part of my duties." Maeglin made a strange expression, one she later learned meant "self-deprecation". "In fact, that's all I ever seem to do as a Lord."

"It is… hard work?" she ventured, not knowing what it was or why it was something to be avoided.

"Yes, probably more than all of the healers had put into my body." He shook his head. "Not to jest about it, but I am so tired just about anything will go."

"You are tired… my Lord?"

"Please, call me Maeglin, Rûsa."

"… Sorry."

"Don't be. You and I are not master and servant—more like relatives. Idril's taken you under her wing, I hear."

"Relatives?" She grew more confused by his strange words.

"Uh… people related by kinship. Blood or marriage," he added. "Idril's my first cousin. My mother was related to her father."

"Oh."

They stayed that way for some time, silent as the afternoon grew long. It wasn't until someone small burst in did they stir, Rûsa being the first to react.

Her first instinct to sudden noises or appearances was to hide, which she promptly did by trying to burrow behind Maeglin. Fortunately, for her small size, it wasn't hard however awkward it looked. Maeglin was caught off guard and nearly fell over, accidentally pulling her with him. For someone with a stooped back, not to mention being malnourished for most of her life, she moved quickly.

Maeglin sighed, putting his arm around her―at which she burrowed further into him―and turned to face the newcomer.

"Hi, Maeglin!" Eärendil greeted, surprised to see him.

"Long time no see, kid. You have grown taller since I last saw you."

The blonde child slightly pouted, moving over to them. "You have been gone for so long, Maeglin, where have you been? I heard that you were in the healing wings earlier this the summer, did you get injured in the mines?"

_Great,_  Maeglin thought, his headache starting to come back. Eärendil had a habit of babbling out questions before someone got a chance to answer. "Slow down, kid," he said, waving a hand. "Yes, I got injured in the mines, I was careless, and the healers needed me to stay so I could heal properly."

A lie, but it was the best way to explain for Eärendil why he had been gone. The child would not understand the horrors of Angband, only knowing it as something from nightmares, and he was too old to get remember any of them to get an idea. Maeglin would rather keep his head than lose it to Tuor's wrath.

"Who is she?" Eärendil asked while pointing straight at Rûsa, who kept her face buried from him. Maeglin gently slapped his hand away.

"It is rude to point at people, you know that," he said in a slightly stern tone of voice while he thought:  _Maybe she still is scared despite the time which have passed since we first came back._ He could remember clearly the times when  _he_ would jump at the slightest sound; that was mostly why he had been kept by the healers so long, once his physical pains were healed.

He glanced at Rûsa, noticing for the first time her short hair, looking unnaturally fluffy than he remembered.  _Of course,_  he thought.  _It was a ragged mat_. Maeglin also remembered the intense chemicals used on his shaven scalp to kill vermin caught in Angband. How much worse it was for Rûsa, he didn't know. But the improvements were indicative of successful treatment. She had sidelocks growing in, as well as a frontal fringe beginning to cover her forehead―symptomatic of straight hair.

"Where's mom?" Eärendil asked, breaking his train of thought. Thankfully the child didn't linger on unimportant things. A blessing.

"I'd imagine she would be with the healers―" Maeglin began, only to amend with―"You can ask her there."

Eärendil whirled around, obviously expecting his mother, but was disappointed when it was only a healer. The woman held a small glass container with a dark powder inside.

"Prince Maeglin, there you were. Here is that sleeping drug you requested. A spoonful of this powder in hot water before bed and it should help," she said kindly, no doubt noting the bags under his eyes. Maeglin took the container, smelling strong herbs.

"Thank you." His thanks was sincere. The healer nodded, and departed. She expected he had charge over the child and young woman, and did not bother them further.

"Well kiddo," Maeglin said again. "Let's go find your mother. Or your father, whoever's closer." He gently disengaged Rûsa from his arm, and when she was sitting on her own, stood and took Eärendil's hand. "It was nice meeting you again, Rûsa," he said kindly. "I'll come and find you again, I promise."

Rûsa stayed quiet, conflicted emotions inside her warring, as Maeglin and the boy departed. On the one hand, her self-preservation instinct told her to stay here where it was safe; on the other, a newer one wanted her to go with the Elf Lord. Also connected was the strong certainty that she  _didn't_  want him to leave, which went contrary to her other instincts.

Would it go several months before she saw him the next time? She had never felt like this for another slave in Angband, and yet…  _Please do not go! Don't leave me alone!_  her mind cried as she left her seat and tried to run after them both; they were on the walkway in direct sunlight, but she didn't care. Holding a hand on the wall to better steady herself, she tried to follow after as quickly and quietly as she could do in her current state with her stooped back.

But she was not fast enough. Maeglin was already outside, taking Eärendil back home before Tuor or the servants saw that he had snuck out again. Rûsa stopped by a window that overlooked another garden, trying to make him out. The sunlight made it difficult to see him in the growing distance―why did it need to be so  _bright!?_

She realized that she hated being alone, hated how she had been unable to properly bond with other slaves due to always being so timid and insecure of herself. She barely recalled the face of her long dead foster-mother, who had nursed her after losing her own child at birth, and with her own mother dead after the difficult birth, Rûsa would not have survived otherwise. Maeglin was the only one who had reached out to her in those dark tunnels.

For the first time in forever.

"Do not… go…" she whispered to herself, suddenly feeling like she was about to start crying. And she, who had not cried for so long, hardly noticed the tears sliding down her face.

When Idril found her, Rûsa was weeping on the open sil. With a motherly hand, she led her unresisting charge back inside.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

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A/N1 (from OAC - QI):  _A friend of Rogercat created a picture of the final scene in this chapter, where Rûsa is visiting the chapel. It is a beautiful piece of art and I highly encourage y'all to go and check it out. It is called The Prayer Hall by Mysilvergreen._

_ _


	3. Strange Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift is chosen, a friendship forged, and a history lesson.

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**Strange Gifts**

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_" **A gift consists not in what is done or given, but in the intention of the giver or doer.** "  
_ _—Seneca_

"No! Please, no, I don't want it!"

"This one's different from the rest, Rûsa. I have it on excellent authority that it was made with you in mind." Idril smiled at her, hoping to put Rûsa at ease. "The others were temporary; please, trust me. This was made special."

"No!" Rûsa spat, a strange fire in her eyes. "I've had enough of it!"

Behind them two healers whispered to one another, watching them unobtrusively. "She does have some backbone in her, I'll give her that," one said, surprised. "I hadn't thought she'd stand up to her like this."

"Hush, now," the other said. "She'll overhear."

"Idril?"

"No, our patient."

Idril had abandoned her coaxing and drew herself up to her full height; next to Rûsa she was like a tower, indomitable. "Rûsa, I understand that the others have hurt you, but you must understand that they were temporary, and were only there to help support your back. It took some time to make this one special as we don't often get elves like you." Her voice was low but firm, a sign that she wouldn't back down.

Rûsa, on the other hand, continued to be in defiance. Despite her stature there was a bravery that was all out of proportion to it. Anyone who had met her before would be shocked by how much had changed—no more was the cowering girl but a determined woman. "No," she repeated. "I will not put it on."

The corset in question lay on the floor, where she had shoved it away. It was like any other corset except it was stiff like a suit of armor, had metal braces strategically placed for support, and was specially shaped to help stabilize Rûsa's curved spine. At least that was the idea except the ones previous were ill suited; either too tight or too loose, and both hurt. So when Idril had shown her this one, and tried to help put it on, Rûsa flatly refused. She had endured enough and was getting quite tired of the healing wing.

"Your back is deformed and will hamper you the longer you don't get it fixed. The healers cannot do everything; they need the body to cooperate."

"I've lived with it since the Blue Warrior crippled Him!" Rûsa retorted. "I will not wear it!"

A knock interrupted the argument, which gave one the healers an excuse to turn away from the conflict. "Oh." She stopped after opening the door halfway, not moving for the newcomer. "Um, my Lord, we're in a delicate situation; would you like to return later?" She spoke softly but given that everyone was quiet it hardly mattered. Idril kept her eyes focused on Rûsa but was listening, while her suddenly rebellious charge looked over, ignoring her.

"What? Oh, well, on your head be it." With a concealed sigh she stood back to let in the Lord.

In stepped the most unusual elf Rûsa had ever seen. Apart from his extraordinary height, which dwarfed everyone in the room, his skin was coal black instead of the tanned translucence of most elves. His eyes were green, standing out like lights, and together with his white hair contrasted against the darkness. The overall impression he radiated was that of a powerful warrior, with strong impeccable authority and (unusually) kind gentleness. Not like Idril's, which was feminine, but similar.

To Rûsa, who had for all her life, had no reason to trust a man unless they had proven themselves to her, he was an irresistible draw. Everything inside of her cried out to go him, and be comforted. It was not the same as Maeglin, who stirred different but no less powerful feelings inside, but something else, something she couldn't put a name to.

"Good afternoon, Lady," the man said, his voice deep but soothing. He addressed Idril. "I understand you're having complications?"

"Yes, I am, Lord Rog," she answered, gesturing in exasperation. "This—girl—has been resistant to your creation."

"Is she now?" He fixed his gaze on Rûsa, who shrank back, all former defiance gone. "I wonder why."

"My Lord, sir." The other healer, who had moved to collect the discarded corset, touched his arm. She hardly came up to his elbow. "It's because of the other corsets. She doesn't like them and now refuses to touch it."

Rûsa tried to keep her body under control, keeping her hands from trembling in fear. For some reason, she felt unable to breathe again, as if she suddenly had gotten her old slave collar back around her neck, limiting her ability to take deep breaths. She put a hand to her throat, feeling it pressing against her again; her legs felt wobbly and she backed into the wall, unable to stand.

"There now, Rûsa," he said in a gentle tone, moving to help her up. "There is nothing to be afraid of here."

"I keep telling her that but she continues—"

"Peace, Idril." He raised a hand. But Rûsa instinctively curled against the wall, holding her arms around her head as if expecting a blow coming any moment, now trembling in her whole body. Rog noticed this and lowered it slowly. The healers and Idril looked on as he stood there, half-kneeling, watching the girl intently.

Eventually she peeked from beneath her arms, slight amazement that no blow had fallen. Yet her black eyes showed that she was still expecting some form of punishment for standing up against what they had wished to do.

"There is nothing to be afraid of."

Rog's voice, no longer deep with authority, was now soft like butter. Kind and understanding. "I made the new corset to help you; I had them sketch your body specifically so that I can see where the others had failed and avoid making their mistakes."

"B—B—But I am—am tired, Lo—Lord… t—tired of pain..." she whispered, her voice shaking from fear.

"I know you are, my dear Rûsa, but you'll continually hurt unless you wear it. There are two kinds of pain in Eä. The first is the needless pain of suffering and anguish caused by the Dark Lord; the other is pain from refused healing. But there are also two ways of healing. One in the mind and soul; the other in the body. Right now you need to let go of your fear of temporary pain or else we cannot destroy the permanent pain caused by your slaver. Surely you must have wished to be able to stand up with a straight back at times? Why not stand permanently?"

She drew a sharp breath at that question, sounding like she was about to start crying. Rog opened his arms; without a second thought she let go of the wall and fell into them, her tears released. While she trembled from their closeness—suggesting that she was most likely not that used to body contact in a such gentle manner—she did not protest.

Idril kept quiet, but her eyes glittered. The healers had trouble restraining their noises, hands alternately covering and releasing their open mouths. Even with the Lady's gentleness and the healers' kindness they had achieved none of this in so short time as the Lord Rog had.

"Shall we try again?" Rog asked—no, whispered.

Rûsa nodded through her tears, briefly unaware that she had dropped all pretense of coldness and aloofness.

"Idril, may I see that corset?"

As it was handed over to Rog, Rûsa tried to stand as tall as she could at the moment and hissed in pain. The cracking of her back and shoulders told Rog that some of the issue came from her tensing up in that thin body, worsing the fear of pain. Had the earlier corsets actually triggered up memories of some very painful punishment from Angband? If so, it was no wonder, really, that she did not want to test out the new one.

"Don't worry," he said, "this'll only hurt for a moment."

She stood trembling, arms outstretched, and turned around. Rog then proceeded to fasten it around about her. As soon as the last string was tightened she felt immense relief; the weight of her bowed body was alleviated, her neck straightening along with her back, and she almost collapsed out of deliverance. It was a huge surprise at realizing that she now saw from a slightly higher perspective instead of looking downwards.

"A moment, try to stand straight and still," one of the two healers requested, a measuring tape in her hand. Having Rûsa against the wall, she took the chance to check her actual height, They had been unable to do so while she had been laying in bed, fearing that it would be a uneven result.

"One hundred forty-three centimeters in height, roughly what we had believed, give or take a centimeter," she pronounced. Rûsa, who had no idea what she meant, looked confused over the words. Well, that explained why she was so tiny beside others, at least, Rog thought privately. Next to him she would be invisible in a crowd, almost vanishing even among young Elves of similar height.

"You'll become a fine woman one day, Rûsa," he said. "Soon your troubles will be over."

And then Rûsa did the rarest of things since she arrived in Gondolin: she smiled. It was a tiny and unsure smile, yet for a moment it seemed to transform her whole being.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

As Maeglin left the House of Healing he took a more leisurely stroll across Gondolin, enjoying the last warm days of Autumn before Winter was upon them within a few short months. Already the snow which capped the Encircling Mountains had advanced down the slopes and touched the edges of Tumladen, hinting to the coming cold season.

The City was designed to be open, with broad avenues and wide promenades connecting the white streets. Buildings crowned with towers lined their edges and between them laid fair gardens with the final blooms of Summer. Birds sang, their songs cutting through the cold air. In this Maeglin basked, breathing in as a sweet smell, borne from the farming fields in the south, came upon a brisk breeze. After the horrors of Angband, this almost felt like a living dream at times, even for him, who had spent roughly half his life here.

As Maeglin walked, he smiled at the memory of seeing Rûsa again. It had pleased him greatly, especially at recalling how thin and feverish she had been the last time he had seen her before today. The physical shock of the difference between here and Angband could have killed her; he remembered restless nights as he worried over her health. The healers ultimately told him this was a side effect of his own healing as the mind purged the poisons of Morgoth. Now even after he was healed he still worried, not over her physical health (she was in good hands), but rather about her ability to adapt to life here. It had been nearly six months since their return and she had yet to be released to life in Gondolin, confined as she was to the Halls. Something about her back, he recalled how stooped she had been, always bending over when walking and gasping in pain the few times she had need to help him stand on his own feet. Hopefully they would have put something together.

"Maeglin!"

The whining of Eärendil caught his attention. "Yes?" he asked, looking down at the boy. He meant to follow Eärendil back to his house, so he would not run off to the healing wing again to find Idril. He knew that the boy was old enough for starting school lessons, and most likely had run off from one in order to find her.

"I thought we're going straight back home."

"Well, I was thinking that we both need some time outside anyway. I am tired of the paperwork and you're too energetic to sit still. I can explain to your father about why you're tardy."

"Yay!"

Maeglin smiled at Eärendil's joy. "But remember, when we get back, you'll have to promise you'll do your chores like your father asked."

"Okay!"

A low murmur caught his attention and he looked up: there, across the way—opposite the plaza they came upon—was a marketplace full of elves. During the long centuries of peace since King Turgon led his people from Nervast the Gondolindrim had grown and multiplied, creating families until upwards of three generations (as the Elves reckoned them) dwelt in the City. While the valley about was farmed and cultivated the people had begun making small trinkets for one another, useless things in practicality but joyous for the little ones and a relief for their elders. Clothing was in much demand, though not much in fine raiment, as the mines and farms kept them busy but they still found ways of expressing their creativity. This particular marketplace, he remembered suddenly, serviced the mining families under his jurisdiction and it had taken advantage of the warm day to peddle its wares; and was even now in the close.

Among the bright clothing and colorful patterns being taken down he espied a selection of cloth lengths from one particular stand, manned by a woman and her daughter—both nearly identical save for differences in their bearing and colour on the clothing they wore—and they were beginning to pack up.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's go mingle about the marketplace. I'm sure you'll find some of your friends there."

"Hello, Lord Maeglin!"

"It's the Mole Prince!"

As the children gathered around them (distressingly, there were a fair number of ladies too) the Elf Lord made his way over to the stand. Eärendil gathered a group of his fellows and they set off at a run down the street toward the fountains, near the Great Square where the Twin Trees of Gondolin—fair Glingol and graceful Belthil—stood tall and proud.

"Good eve, Lord Maeglin," the woman curtsied, her daughter copying a split-moment later as she checked her surprise. "How may we help you today?"

"There is a chill in the air and I am looking to buy a scarf. Two, perhaps, one for myself and the King's grandson."

He had brought scarves of them before over the years, knowing their skill in sewing a even and pleasant result on each scarf. They were known for their skilled flower patterns, and Maeglin had never needed to be shy about wearing one of them after seeing several of his fellow Lords had worn scarves made by them. As always, there were several to choose from, and he took his time, looking at them carefully. Finding a green one for Eärendil (since that was the boy's favorite colour apart from blue) and a grey one for himself, Maeglin's eye was suddenly drawn towards a blue spot of colour among the rest. It was a scarf made of blue silk, thin yet long enough to become warm when tied around the throat. A simple pattern of roses in white thread was sewn on the fabric, giving off a pleasant view that would be not too much out of place no matter the season.

"The weeks are growing colder, sir," the mother said, observing his selection. "Wouldn't a thicker one be more suited?"

"Oh it's not that. I'm looking for something simple but lovely."

"Do you have a lady after your heart, my Lord?"

He smiled slightly. "Maybe. I'm not sure, really. My uncle keeps pressing me on these things when I rarely have time outside work to meet any unwed maidens and I try not to let it get to me. Pretty annoying, if you ask me, given that uncle already has a direct blood-heir in his grandson over there. How much for this one?"

The daughter named a sum. Maeglin paid it exactly without negotiation, leaving her open-mouthed and the mother with a knowing look. Even if Maeglin had not given any hints she knew that look was an early stage in love, when it had just barely begun. She would know: all four of her eldest children were married, and once had gone through the same trial of the heart. "I hope you enjoy this one, sir. You and whomever you may come to give your heart to, even if you are still unsure who it may be."

Maeglin nodded distractedly, tucking it away quickly before others saw. He trusted her to stay discreet. To cover any suspicious movements he used the opportunity to look for Eärendil.

"He's over there, mi'lord," the daughter offered, pointing down to the Great Square.

"Thank you." With a small bow to both ladies Maeglin turned to hurry. He had dawdled long enough and Tuor would have many questions if he did bring the Half-elven boy home.

He was so focused on this that he hardly looked at where he was going, and ended up bowling over someone in his haste.

"Hey—watch where you're going!"

Small hands indignantly pushed at him as he put his tumbled thoughts in order. Eventually the current situation registered and he became aware. "I am terribly sorry—"

Maeglin stood and clasped the other's hand, pulling them to their feet.

"—I wasn't looking where I was going, it's my charge he's late in getting home and I was distracted—"

"I'll say, I tried telling you you're in my way and what did you do? Ignore me!"

"I am sorry, again—" He caught a glimpse of the person more clearly. "—ma'am, I was distracted. My humblest apologies to you."

"Thank you, my Lord Maeglin. Forgive me for my tongue."

This time he looked at her more clearly. Something about that voice seemed familiar. He saw chestnut-brown hair piled in a Courtly fashion, bright green eyes, full sensuous lips, and most noticeably a scarlet dress patterned with arabesque gold-thread and flowers. Now it clicked in his memory; it was Tinwen, the only daughter of Egalmoth, head of the House of the Heavenly Arch and (Maeglin knew) one of his mother's escorts before she was waylaid by Eöl. While their marriage had been far from perfect in the last years before their deaths, Maeglin knew that his parents must have been deeply in love once, else he would not exist at all.

Of course Tinwen and her fellow ladies would be out in the market, hoping to find fabric for new dresses and gemstones for new jewelry. Idril, as the Crown Princess, mayn't be that interested in jewelry and other riches, but many of the other young noble maidens had different ideas. In fact, Maeglin had sometimes wondered if that was the reason to why he had once fallen in love with her, looking so natural instead of being covered from head to toe in gemstones. Then again it may have also been her charm that was so curiously lacking in many Elven ladies—except Rûsa, and the older women who had survived the Grinding Ice and thus were hardened by the dangers in the harsh world Gondolin was meant to be sealed away from. In Maeglin's eyes, many of the noble daughters, who all were born here in Gondolin, seemed to not have any difference between them outside birth-family and status, their faces and personalities all the same to him. And Turgon wondered why his only nephew had not any high wish for marriage?

"And my apologies again for not looking where I was going," he said again. "Now if you'll excuse me, my lady, I must find a mischievous boy."

"Can't he wait, my Lord?" She put a hand on his chest, stopping him from going any further. "It's been many months since you were seen in Court. I understand you've been laid up in the Houses of Healing, right?"

Maeglin was suddenly aware of the uncomfortable fact that outside of the Royal Family, and the Hammer of Wrath, no one knew of his bondage in Angband; and by extension, Rûsa was a complete mystery except to Rog and his household.

"I had the ill luck of being in a cave-in when I checked on the mines with some of my men last Winter, and was far in the mountains when it happened. We couldn't move much due to lack of light and air in there. Besides, it is not acceptable to appear in Court with numerous injuries. I'd expect you'd faint and my uncle the King to scold me in front of everyone for being careless."

Though he had not meant it to arouse sympathy, only to get her off him, Tinwen's eyes lit up with concern. "You poor man, why didn't you tell anyone?" she asked, looking him over more carefully.

"The healers would have had my hide for parchment if everyone came in disturbing their work and my rest."

She clucked in disappointment. "A considerate man indeed. It is fortunate you were prudent, then. I'd not want to disturb your rest."

"Maeglin! I wanna go home now because I am hungry!" Eärendil whined suddenly at his hip with a rather hard jerk on his tunic, saving him from more talk. Tinwen looked disappointed by the interruption but graciously understood why. Maeglin was just glad to leave, having starting to feel the effects of his lack of sleep again.

"I certainly hope you'll have time for a visit some day soon, my Lord," she called as they moved down the street. "It would be wonderful to have you as a guest."

Recalling how dizzy he could become thanks to all the various gemstones set on different places in her home, Maeglin mentally shuddered. No, he preferred his own forge more to that.

"I hope so too, my lady!" he called back, not really meaning it. He was rather late and had to get home. The sun was starting to sink in the west and Tuor would be looking for his son, as Eärendil now had been missing his afternoon lessons.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

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"Careful, small steps."

Rog kept one hand on her hip, supporting Rûsa as she walked with the corset. They had left the Healing wing behind and now were in an outside corridor lined with pillars, which supported the roof above, and glass windows holding the space not taken up by the large portraits on the walls.

"W—What are those… things on the w—walls?" Rûsa gasped, trying to catch her breath while looking up. It was a long time since she had been walked this far, and she felt ashamed now, especially when she remembered how much she'd needed to walk or even run across the different levels of Angband where her skills as a slave healer had been needed. Rarely a chance to rest, often collapsing straight into sleep after a small meal of dry bread and thin soup.

"Those things are called portraits," Rog answered, stopping to let her recover. "See that one there—" he pointed. "That is a representation of Tirion, in Elven-home from which this city was built to replace, as many of us originally came from that city."

"It must be nice."

Rûsa was still in deep wonder over how the corset actually made her straighten up and hold her head in a different manner from before. In fact, this was possibly the first time she actually been able to stand upright since childhood. She barely remembered when it begun that way, gradually accepting it as normal in her old life.

"And this portrait over here," Rog was saying, breaking her thoughts, "is a representation of the first High King of the Nolder, Finwë, the paternal grandfather of our King; his son Fingolfin is Turgon's father. The blonde lady at his side is his wife Indis the Fair."

Rûsa could follow along well enough and was able to understand his explanations. Rog did not mention that the High King had been married twice (and the family chaos resulting from that) but instead chose to point out the portraits of Anairë and Elenwë. The former, he explained, was Turgon's mother, and the latter was his wife. "From her came her only daughter, Idril."

"The lady with gold hair?"

"Yes, Rûsa. You must learn to use her proper name, as it is the polite thing to do in mixed company."

"Idril…" she sounded out slowly, feeling the syllables on her tongue. It was easier to say compared to most words the healers taught her: they insisted on teaching her an impossible tongue they called "Quenya" side by side with Sindarin. After each lesson her mouth felt dry and her head ached. Here Rog said each of the portrait subjects' Quenyan names with ease. "What's her other name?" she wondered.

"Idril? Itarillë, Sparkling Brilliance. This is in reference to her golden hair."

Now Rûsa recalled a moment where Maeglin, during one of their first attempts to talk, had tried to explain with hand signals that his name meant "sharp glance" in Sindarin. She was pretty sure that Sauron once had mentioned "Lómion" to him in a taunting voice, so maybe Maeglin carried that name too. Though why would people here in the Hidden City needed two names—and in two different languages as well—was behind her.

Besides, both Quenya and Sindarin sounded almost nothing like how the slaves in Angband had spoken. She had been able to recognize some words but the pronunciation was different than what she was used to, and more than once the healers had muttered something strange about her mixing the two languages together into a such mess than they did not understand some of the words she spoke at all.

"I… I do not know what my name means, Lord…"

"I believe it is an Orcish bastardization of russa, or "red haired", a Quenyan word."

She looked up at him in surprise—a muddled memory coming to the surface, a half-reference (possibly an insult) to her birth-mother having been a Noldo, one of the first from beyond the Sea. Rûsa knew so little about her parents apart from her mother and father's deaths; her father was implied to have killed himself.

"Re—Really?"

Rog guessed from her whisper, of fright or nervousness, that Rûsa most likely had never been told the meaning behind her name, or possibly told her lineage. Slavery did that to the Elves, no matter who they were. Even Maedhros had to take a long time to recover from her own imprisonment, he remembered with sorrow. Turning away from that path before his mind went down it, Rog directed her attention to another portrait.

"This Lord is the former High King Fingolfin, or Ñolofinwë, "Wise Finwë". Though many questioned his wisdom in challenging the Dark Lord to single-combat, alone. His rage dimmed his reasoning… "

"He is the Blue Warrior from that time?!" Rûsa interrupted him in a shocked voice, now seeing a similarity to the warrior from what she remembered of the duel, despite Fingolfin being a blur of blue and white, steel flashing amongst the darkness of Morgoth. She remembered very well, however, the horror that she felt when she heard the crack of the Elf King's spine from beneath Morgoth's foot.

The arrival of the giant eagle arriving had been an unexpected surprise but despite this her dreams remained haunted by nightmares for weeks afterward. It cost her dearly, as a few slaves injured in the mines died under her care and she had been punished most horribly for this oversight.

"Is he...?"

"Yes, King Fingolfin is dead, and his fëa has departed for Mandos. He is at peace, now." Rog privately thought that "peace" was probably the last thing the Elven King would have in the Vala's Halls, given his rebellion against the Valar's decrees: but it'd be the least of what he'd gone through in Beleriand. At least his half-brother Fëanor would be there, though whether or not they would find peace with one another was a matter left to Eru's grace.

They had been good friends, once despite the issues of only sharing a father and each one being born to a different mother, but with the rift since the Darkening that friendship was frayed. Perhaps their time in Mandos would sort them both out.

"You need not fear for him any longer, Rûsa," he concluded.

"W—We could hear him… command the Dark Lord to—to come out and fight him," she whispered. "He called him…" Fingolfin had branded Morgoth as coward and craven, an unworthy king who hid behind his gates out of fear of the elves pursuing him. Morgoth's wrath had been legendary—he called for his warhammer as all slaves within earshot had fled in fear for their lives. Rûsa had stayed, hiding behind a rock where she had a full view of the duel on the plains of Angband. She had never seen anyone actually go against Morgoth, making Fingolfin seem even mightier to her limited perception, since no one—ever—had stood against him. Foolishly, some may think, but brave for her. A unbroken spirit, so unlike any slave broken in the hellish slave life in Angband.

After the duel Morgoth limped—she remembered Fingolfin had struck him such that he cried out, several times—back into his fortress. She had quickly retreated far away, as his wrath boiled over. Even Sauron had suffered, unusual as that was to happen between them. Morgoth had impotently cursed the Elf King and the eagle and the Valar, and everyone hid in fear from him. It was only narrowly that she had managed to sneak out and take one of her now secret treasures from the battlefield before the gates had been closed shut again.

"Are you feeling all right?" Rog asked, carefully holding a broad hand over her shoulder as she trembled again, shaking more than from just exertion in walking.

"Y—Yes… it is just… the Dark Lord was so angry after that duel… e—everyone feared for their lives long a—afterwards when they had to pass him… trying to a—avoid the throne room if they could…" Rûsa tried to take several deep breaths at Rog's gentle suggestion; seeing the portrait of Fingolfin had brought up a lot of conflicted memories and feelings from that duel.

"I think you are tired from this day, Rûsa. Perhaps you need to rest?"

Rûsa was trembling so much she couldn't stand, much less move her legs. Rog carefully lifted her up and started down the hall back to the Healing Wing.

"W—What happened afterwards? I k—know that there was a big battle a long time ago, and that the Balrogs spoke of killing another High King…"

"That would be Lord Fingon, the eldest son of Lord Fingolfin. His portrait is that one." Rog nodded to a portrait next to Fingolfin's.

As per Fingon's habit in life from his youth, the portrait showed him with his long dark hair in great plaits braided with gold. That detail alone made him stand out from his father, as they otherwise had been fairly similar in looks when dressed in either the court robes of Tirion or armour of Middle-earth. Turgon had inherited more of Anairë's softer face shape and thus looked less like his father than at first glance despite being one of the tallest members of their family. Even Aredhel and his youngest brother, Argon, had taken after Fingolfin more than Turgon.

"Where are you, my Lord?"

He decided to humor her by not insisting on his name. She was still tense and any indication she had done wrong would hurt her more. "My portrait would be elsewhere in the palace, along with the other Lords of Gondolin. This hall is for the nobles of Tirion and, of course, the royal family." Because of the tension between the House of Fingolfin and the House of Fëanor, Turgon had not ordered any large portraits made of them save for some small drawings set in a hall far away, almost toward the basements as a not-so-subtle hint as to what he thought of his half-cousins.

He and Maedhros had a bitter argument after finding Fingon's body, claiming that she was the one who had caused his death and Maedhros responded with angry tears that Turgon was a coward who hid himself away in the Hidden City and never helped the rest of the Noldor when they needed his warriors. In fact, several of their surviving kin had to hold them both back before they literally began fighting then and there, bare handed, in their anger.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

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Once they were back at the Healing wing, a healer meeting them at the door of Rûsa's room, Rog helped her back into bed. "Rest easy, now," he advised. "You've had a long day, and much progress was made by being brave enough to try out the new corset. You'll be walking on your own without pain before long."

"Thank you," she said, closing her eyes. Due to the nature of her healing she had to take small cat naps during daytime and tended to sleep long during the night, though it was not uncommon that she woke up in the middle of night at times. This close to the nighttime (the Sun had already slipped behind the mountains) she fell fast asleep.

Now, at being so close, Rog noticed something he had not really seen earlier: the shape and color of her eyes, almost pure black but in a different way from how Maeglin had inherited Eöl's black eyes. It was the shape that was different, he thought, unlike the eyes of the Noldor or Sindarin. Something clicked in his memories, from long ago in his ancient youth, faint memories of a clan all having that kind of eye shape…

That clan, like so many others, had been all either killed or enslaved in Angband around the time of the Great Journey, many long centuries ago. Rog rested his hand on her cheek, marveling how cool it felt to him. When they first met her skin was aflame with fever and she was passing in and out of consciousness. Now it was as if she only had a rough day. The healers were marvels. If only others like her could have been saved from Angband.

But to overthrow that fortress of iron and pain they would need the help of the Valar themselves, and it was doubtful that it would ever happen with the Exiles' banishment from Valinor for the First Kinslaying. Endless innocent lives had been spent needlessly in Fëanor's blind quest for revenge, and with the news of Doriath falling less than three years ago to his sons, it was even more unlikely that the Valar would grant them any sort of help against Morgoth. It was rumored King Greymantle had demanded a Silmaril, as bride-price for his only daughter Lúthien, from Beren the Man; and thus dragged in Doriath into the curse that was Fëanor's Oath. A fool he was to doom himself and his people by the lust of pride.

"Kings and their pride sometimes…" Rog sighed to himself and took his leave, nodding to the healer as he left.

Even as he went back into Gondolin's streets, however, the disquiet of his thoughts never strayed from him. Rûsa had brought again thoughts he had tried to keep away, and the curse of fallen Doriath weighed heavy on his heart. Somehow he knew that Doom was approaching Gondolin, the Hidden City, and the last stronghold of the Elves would be imperiled by the Dark Lord.

Before he disappeared into his home—where he lived with many of the orphaned youngsters who had lost their fathers in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears and their mothers to the heavy grief of widowhood—he resolved to speak to Turgon and Tuor about Gondolin's inevitable siege. The King would most certainly not believe him, but it was never wrong to try and warn him at least. That way he could claim no ignorance when it happened, stubbornness or no. No matter how long their days may be numbered, Rog would never allow the people of Gondolin pay the price for their King's refusal to leave Tumladen.

In that way, despite the losses they would have, in the long run fewer souls would be stained by the Elves' obdurate pride, and fewer slaves would darken Angband's gates. Every single life counted when it came to survival, and they more than anyone in this City realized was dear to Rog's heart. The loss of his own birth clan laid heavy in his memories; he would not allow that to happen again if he could avoid it. Unwed he may be, but many of the orphans saw him as an honorary father-figure for a reason. And it was a father's duty to protect those in his care.

This, he vowed to Eru Ilúvatar, he would keep to the very end. If his own life was the price to keep people safe from Morgoth and the fate of enslavement in Angband, then so be it.

As the Moon rose over Middle-earth he entered into his home, the female cook scolding him gently for missing dinner, and sought for his bed after a quick supper of the leftovers. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and would certainly not go well when he met Turgon and his stubbornness.

"And people say he is a good King to this City…" he muttered, blowing out the candle and placing it on the small table beside his bed. Good riddance, was his final thought before sleep overtook him.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note from Rogercat: A lot of things happens in Gondolin even on a single day, and we gets some hints to Rûsa's past in Angband. A mystery is slowly starting to thread out. (And we have finally found a way to update the chapters faster though Google Documents!)
> 
> Author's note from OAC - QI: our apologies for such a late update. The blame is mostly with me, as I procrastinate a lot. We learned a valuable lesson, namely to not trust me with the writing of this story alone and then sending it to Rogercat for proofing; we did most of this over the week before posting this chapter after about a month or three (I forget) of nothing worked on. lolz


	4. Shards of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, breakfast, and a gentle meeting.

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**Shards of Steel**

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 ** _"I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear."_**  
_― Nelson Mandela_

"Rûsa!"

She froze in terror, her gathered healing materials falling from stiffened hands; she had been sharpening her bone needles, for they had grown dull. That hissing, sibilant voice meant only one thing: Sauron, the Dark Master. None of the Orcs spoke like that—they announced their presence by harsh grunts. Neither did the slaves—they spoke with low murmurs, often by hand signs, mostly by moans.

"Ye—Yes, mi'lord?" she answered.

Another hand, a large, black one, snaked around her thin, bony shoulders and clasped at her. "I've been looking for you. Our Lord requires you to join us."

"Ye—Yes, mi'lord."

Shakily she stood, his hand almost pulling her upright, and was turned around by Sauron. She hurried to grab her healing materials and put them back in her bag, not wanting to lose any of them.

"You will not need these," he said, stopping her. "Leave them."

Without further delay he took her from her tiny room—into which he loomed like a giant—and out into the hall. The other slaves were there, not even daring to whisper. She could feel their eyes upon her, and the wariness implicit by it. She had no hierarchy among them except by that copper collar she wore, a sign that she was not to be harmed, and they resented her for it. Sauron himself couldn't care less, even if he was the one who set that collar around her throat in her ancient youth. All he cared was obedience and order in his master's realm.

They entered the corridors of Angband and ascended high into Thangorodrim. Orc soldiers stood at attention as they passed, various demonic spirits halted and gave way, and even some of the Balrogs stepped aside for Sauron. Some looked at her with a knowing expression (as far as she could tell) but none said anything.

If anything, Rûsa was terrified to enter the throne room. She feared to be around Morgoth, especially since his ill-fated duel with the Blue Warrior, a shard of whose helm she kept among her belongings. As the steps of the high stairs fell away she realized where exactly where they were going—not the grand, dark chambers where he held his councils of war and ghastly court, neither the personal chambers where only Sauron and certain high messengers were permitted. No, they were headed to the highest peaks, where nine years earlier he "entertained" an elderly Man, one whose name she never learned. Seldom was she brought up there and those vast heights had terrified her to mute silence—more than once she feared she'd take a wrong step and plummet to her doom. More than one slave had died in that manner as she had lived here in Angband.

There he stood—Morgoth, monolithic darkness clothed as a man, the glow of the twin jewels crowning his head. He stared out over the blasted lands of Anfauglith, and did not speak until they had entered his presence.

"Hello, Rûsa." Morgoth's voice contrasted sharply with his appearance, smooth and soft as butter. "Welcome again."

"Y—You c—c—called f—for me, Master?" Rûsa asked, trembling. Sauron pushed her forwards, and her body obeyed without question. There was a great throne of black rock and iron; upon this Morgoth would often recline while brooding. Now Sauron placed her on it, a tiny body atop a large chair.

"Yes. I hear you are one of Sauron's little pets." This was a statement, not a question, and she knew better than to say anything out of turn. Morgoth turned then to face her. His eyes, grey and cold where Sauron's was fair and fiery, bored into her own. "You have been tending to our guest."

"Yes, Master." She was unable to turn her gaze from him—no one could stand or contravene his will.

"Tell me, Rûsa, what do you see far over that dead plain?"

She looked as she was bidden, trying to focus with her limited sight. By some dark magic placed on the chair, she felt like she left her body for a moment and floated in the air, a unpleasant feeling given how similar it felt to falling. "I… I see a clouded sky. Mountains. Smoke."

"Do you know why you see this?"

"No, Master."

Morgoth smiled, a cruel one upon his twisted face. "What you see is the ruin of Doriath, the only free Elven realm to have existed before my reign. Now look at me. You see these jewels?"

"Yes," she answered. The jewels spoken of seem to shine ever brighter as her eyes drifted past them. By instinct and pain, she shut her eyes to hide the light. "They… they are pretty…"

He chuckled. "Yes, of course they are. From Doriath they sent a Man to claim one, and he succeeded with the help of a girl-child hailing from that kingdom. I am sure you have forgotten it but it was a most shameful thing. All of my warriors, all of my generals, even dear Sauron could not stand against this strange foe. They claimed the center jewel. But they have paid for it dearly—for the wretched sons of Fëanor have laid their land into ruin, their king toppled and heir slain, and the union of the elves are broken once more."

Rûsa had no idea what he really spoke of, limited as she was in knowing about things and life outside that of a slave. Yet she listened, fearing punishment if she did not. Morgoth was a proud spirit and loved to boast.

"Treachery. It is a strange thing. It poisons relationships, breaks trust, and turns the hearts of allies against one another. It alone destroys what the sword cannot. Those kingdoms of elves and men, out there arrayed against me, have lied to themselves. They believe they are here to overthrow me, having forgotten why they abandoned the Valar and their homes. No, the sons of Fëanor have not forgotten. They cannot forget, lest their dear father's memory be restless."

He laughed then, a mockery of all alliances and friendships. "In his arrogance he betrayed his own kin, for his own gain. It was never about avenging his honor, nor reclaiming these pretty jewels. It was about salvaging his pride. He and I… we are quite alike, in a way, I have realized. It is in this great secret that I have come to discover my enemies' ultimate fatal flaw—pride."

Now Morgoth laid a hand on her face, and grasped her chin roughly, forcing her to look him straight into his own eyes beneath the jeweled crown of iron.

"And to my immense sorrow I find my own pride can never be assuaged until I get what I came for. You see, there is one kingdom hidden from me. It has eluded me for a long time. I need to find it. Our guest is the key. If he dies, their doom is delayed, but my wrath will not be."

He paused, looking thoughtful.

"Sauron tells me you have an understanding—is that the right word? an understanding with our guest. He tells you things." He chuckled. "I know, healer's confidentiality, I forgot. But I want you to tell me everything he tells you, no matter if it is his mad ravings or his more sober words. If I find you have not been doing this, then I may be forced to give you over to your mother's fate."

Rûsa cried out, one that was cut short by Morgoth pressing his nails into her skin, but still a sob of pain.

"Yes, it is a hard thing. You have a fire inside you that has forced you onward. It is an admirable fire, and at times I wish you had been born a man instead of a woman. You would have not been a simple healer but my champion. A deadly weapon on the battlefield, tasked with leading battles against the Fëanorians and their armies. A shame, really—perhaps your son will become my general."

For a moment, Rûsa thought her heart to have stopped out of sheer terror. More than anything else she feared childbirth, being forced to bring into hell an innocent  _fëa_ , and dying as a result of it. More the latter she feared than the first—with good reason. Her childlike body was too small from malnutrition and stunted growth: if she ever got heavy with a child she would have to be cut open if it was to survive, and she'd go the way her own mother and countless others had gone.

He released her. "Gothmog."

"Your Majesty."

Another dark figure appeared to stand beside them. Where Morgoth was a black shadow this one was fire clothed in shadow. Unlike Sauron, who prefered slender, elfin forms to deceive his enemies, Gothmog was a towering giant of bulk iron and muscle. Flame-orange fire outlined the gaps in his perpetually armored body; upon his back were vast, folded pinions of leathery skin, crowned by cruel barbs; and at his waist was a sheathed sword that smoked, and coiled beside was a whip of fire.

With a faint wail, Rûsa tried to hide herself and failed, still trapped by Morgoth's will. Balrogs were fear incarnate, even moreso than the Dark Lord, and all avoided them.

Rûsa had seen slaves killed by them as punishment for various crimes, generally by trying to escape or lead a uproar among the newly arrived slaves from the outside world. Often it was because they had gotten in their way. And now the Lord of the Balrogath was here, horned head bowed in Morgoth's presence.

"Marshal your soldiers. It will not be long before we find the last Elven kingdom."

Gothmog bowed then turned and strode from the heights. Morgoth turned to look at Sauron. "Take her back," he ordered. "Remember," he added, as a parting warning, "tell me everything he tells you. I trust you will not disappoint me."

Rûsa had never been more grateful to see the blackness of Angband after that encounter. Only one thought remained on her mind:

" _I will not die—I will survive!_ "

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

" _I will not…!_ "

With a gasp, Rûsa awoke from the nightmare. It had come unbidden, and she had been unprepared for it. The absence of the sleeping drugs had made sure of that. They had been instrumental in forcing her into having a normal sleeping cycle since she often had worked herself into exhaustion, but had the unintentional side-effect of suppressing dreams. She'd forgotten all about it.

She remembered, however, quite clearly her terror from seeing the face of Morgoth, more than his words. It was a threat she'd been used to hearing from Sauron—but Morgoth more than anyone else had burned it inside her.

Rûsa touched her cheek and felt moisture. Sometime during the dream she had cried, profusely it appeared. She looked up, half-expecting to see the dark caves again—she instead saw her room, moonlit shadows from the high clouds. It was leagues above her old cell, calming.

" _Mother…_ " she whispered, fresh tears brimming.

Despite never knowing her mother, Rûsa had never hated her for dying; she knew all too well that death was a blessed release from Morgoth's tortures. Better that she die and be at peace than to live in suffering. In fact, dying at the first childbirth as her mother had done seemed a kinder fate than carrying child after child with different breeding males until the female was so worn out from endless pregnancy that she would enter a state of miscarriage no matter what and be viewed as useless. Rûsa did not dare to think what kind of fate awaited those female slaves. But she feared dying because it would mean there had been no point to her own life—escape with Maeglin had been her only option.

Rûsa hissed as she moved, her back protesting against the permanent brace she wore now while sleeping, still finding not it comfortable yet. Pushing aside the nest of blankets she carefully stepped out of her bed, wincing from the cold floor (the furnaces beneath would be started soon for Winter), and went over to a nearby table. It wasn't her bedside table but one with the mirror near the armoire where she dressed the last time. She checked the inside drawer first, then the armoire. She knew it was here, where Idril had put it at her request.

Aha! there it was: her old healer bag. Despite the semi-darkness, as even the moonlight couldn't reach everywhere, she could see perfectly and knew how to move even in total darkness. Angband had given her some useful skills, after all, scars or no.

"I hope that they haven't taken it…" she murmured, "please, let it be here..."

Her hand brushed across something hard and she stopped. A careful touch with her finger told her that it was the shard, with its dulled edges. The healers had been very confused when she had point-blank refused not to give it up, and they reluctantly let her have it after some stiff material was fastened about the more sharper bits. For Rûsa it had been perfectly logical to keep something sharp in her bag, for the healers needed things to cut with, and as the Orcs were none too careful something for defense. This very thing, in fact, had served as her knife.

Rûsa picked it up, a shimmering gleam from the moonlight falling across her face. Even after all this time it was long and keen. She took out some rags someone had placed in her bag and wrapped the shard inside, then retreated to her bed.

Once back in bed, all warmed up again, she fell asleep with it pressed against her chest, a comfort against the night if she was to be haunted by them again. This time no bad dreams haunted her—as if Fingolfin himself, the Blue Warrior she had looked up to, was guarding her slumber.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

The next morning, shortly after dawn, Maeglin awoke rather suddenly by rolling out of bed and down on the floor. Cursing softly he struggled with the blankets, which had somehow gotten tangled around him, until he finally figured where he knotted them by mistake. Such a thing had rarely occurred since his childhood.

He was glad there were no one to observe him as he stood, rubbing a sore spot where he hit his head. That would have been embarrassing if witnessed, although the staff would have heard it anyway from the thumps and thuds of his struggles. Despite this he felt wide awake with no cobwebs in his eyes. After he'd gotten dressed and had washed, he went downstairs to snag a little something before heading to work.

"Good morning, prince Maeglin."

He stopped in surprise at seeing the elf at the door, one of Turgon's personal servants, those who he used as message-bearers to family members.

"Does my uncle the King wish for something to be made from the House of the Mole?" Maeglin asked, able to hide his surprise by acting as if it were something which happened often. The serving staff, female mostly, all pretended to not notice but Maeglin knew that they would be listening anyway during their duties.

"No, my prince, but he requested me to give this to you as soon as I arrived."

Maeglin accepted the letter roll and cut the seal. His face remained neutral, but inside his good mood vanished as he read Turgon's invitation to breakfast in the royal gardens—preferably within an hour at the most.

"How… nice of uncle to invite me to breakfast with him and family..."

Maeglin's insides twisted up, and it was not from lack of sleep this time. Those sleeping drugs had done their job well enough. No, it was from nervousness. Ever since his return the King had cajoled him into attending meals more often but he had found excuses, mostly in the form of work backlogs or orders from the healers to take it slow in returning to normal life. Turgon hadn't taken the hint and instead sent him more secretaries to take off the burden. Maeglin was by nature a reclusive person and socializing was not his forte. Besides, outside of professional interactions, he never attempted to get reacquainted with the royal family, most of all Tuor's family. Eärendil wouldn't be deterred no matter what Maeglin did, but there were other reasons.

His former… infatuation…. for Idril, for instance, had made things awkward even before she had married Tuor; she had gently listened to his attempts to explain, had been understanding and kind, and forgave him of it when he had finally confessed just before leaving the Healing wings. She tried to "not encourage him", as if she thought he would stray again, since that confession. It was subtle, but he knew it. She only wanted him to not trip up and embarrass himself, to make him regret any wrong move.

Both knew that Turgon would not take it well if even the hint of Maeglin's attraction was dropped, and that was why Maeglin had struggled so hard to not look at Idril too much around other folk. He avoided the King primarily for this reason, and Tuor also, though the man was a genial fellow and had never been having issues with his wife's younger cousin outside that Maeglin was not a sociable person. Sparring together in training at times, yes, but not much else.

If Maeglin attended breakfast, at last, then he'd best be on his best behavior. The King would be watching him closely, not out of suspicion, but of genuine concern. Idril would be silent and avoiding his eyes unless it was necessary.

He sighed. It was like walking on eggshells. At least Eärendil would be a welcome distraction—the Half-elven's habit of babbling about the most inane things was a good ice breaker and would hopefully distract Turgon as well.

" _I have not been on those family meals since about… a month before I left Gondolin in the middle of the night…_ " he thought, trying to count back how many months had gone. If he remembered right, it should be about ten months since the last family meal he'd be present at.  _Oh no…_ he remembered clearly now, storming out in a huff.

If he was honest to himself, Maeglin was really not looking forward to it. Turgon had an unnerving habit of making even a simple question sound more like an interrogation even if he did not really mean it. It stemmed from his office, and the elder Elf was worried for him.

"Sometimes I really wish that I had never convinced Mother to leave Nan Elmoth… if uncle asks about Rûsa…" he murmured.

The thought of Turgon asking about Rûsa, and all that entailed, was not pleasant to him either. She was not likely to take well to Turgon if introduced, with his stern manner and sometimes fierce expression. With her background she might take it wrongly and have a complete breakdown. That would not endear either of them to Turgon. No doubt he already was disappointed in Maeglin vanishing for several months, with no explanation, and Rûsa's behavior would make him suspicious indeed and question her. She'd talk, frightened, and Turgon would go ballistic and then there would no rest for Maeglin or anyone else.

Oh well. Best bite down.

"I'll come," he heard himself saying. "It was about time I went anyway."

"Excellent, my lord, I'll inform the King." The messenger bowed and turned to hurry away. Maeglin went to get dressed in something more suitable for a family meal, muttering to himself about a mistimed decision.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

When Maeglin entered the gardens he was dressed in his black doublet, with its silver embroidery. Nothing too fancy; indeed, he was rather out of Courtly fashion and personally preferred a more simple style thanks to his upbringing in Nan Elmoth. Anything of silk would have been impractical when working in the forge beside Eöl and the other blacksmiths.

Nonetheless his uncle's finery gave him pause for a moment—he'd be uncharitable if he called Turgon a preening peacock, but that was the nearest equivalent. Dressed in a dark purple robe bedazzled with small white gems as clouds and embroidery of golden birds Turgon looked extremely vain. Even his crown, normally a circlet of gold, had been replaced with a somewhat more heavier and broader version with gold and silver thread entwined about diamond flowers. Even if he was King this was too much. Who was he impressing, and why? Gondolin was cut off from the other Elven realms, meaning no visitors or folk leaving.

Unless, like a lot of other odd things that had begun to make sense recently, it was an attempt to fight against the spectre of boredom, which secretly haunted the people of Gondolin; With so little news from the outside world and nothing special happening in recent memory (not counting Idril's wedding, Eärendil's birth, and his own disappearance), Maeglin should have known. Anything new was material for gossip for months on end.

"Maeglin, welcome! I am so happy that you could come! I have not seen you for so long!"

Maeglin had been lost in his thoughts so he was unprepared for Turgon's bone-crushing embrace—and was bodily lifted off the ground momentarily, even. The disparity of their heights was also an issue. He was tall himself, but beside his uncle he felt more like a half-grown youth, never to pass by in height. While Maeglin was moderately tall (being 185 cm) Turgon was like a giant at roughly half a meter more in height.

"N—Nice to—to see you again, uncle," he gasped out, trying to catch his breath; he thought one of his ribs was cracking from the hug. "I'm sorr—sorry for delaying thi—this visit!"

At last Turgon released him, and Maeglin nearly fell down in relief; he caught himself at the last moment, coughing instead.

"I'm glad you've come, my son," Turgon answered, a twinkle in his eye. "It has been too long and I fear you've forgotten what socializing is all about."

Behind him Maeglin could see Idril and Tuor, both looking apologetic at the King's behavior. Eärendil was positively jumping up and down with giddy glee from where he had been playing at a rose bush. He caught Idril's eyes for a moment: she mouthed " _Sorry!_ " with a displeased look at her father's back, as if he had been a child caught in the middle of doing something wrong.

"I've had a lot of work on my plate," Maeglin began but Turgon cut him off.

"Now, now, no need of that. It can wait for one day. By Aulë you are busier than myself these days. If I as King can take some time off for my family then surely you can too." Turgon put an arm around Maeglin's shoulders, preventing him from moving away. "Come, relax. You've earned that much at least."

Unbidden, Maeglin was reminded of the contrast between the King and his father. Eöl had been a loner, even as chief of his clan, being somewhat awkward at times as if he had been unsure what to do in some family situations, and had given his wife as much space as she had needed. He rarely dispensed kindness except by his voice. Turgon however was an ebullient fellow. For Maeglin, who had grown used to being comforted by his mother and Eöl's almost confused hugs, it had been quite the shock when Turgon had first hugged him, openly and without shame.

He knew that his uncle meant well, but a part of Maeglin's mind always stayed on guard around Turgon because of both the memory of Eöl's execution and his curse thrown toward Maeglin. Even though his death was justified for murdering Aredhel, Maeglin still felt the loss of Eöl. It no longer hurt as in the olden days immediately following his sire's death, for Morgoth had burnt it from him, but the ache was present nonetheless. For all of their various flaws in parenthood, they had been his birth parents and losing them both so soon had left him empty and rootless. This tainted his relationship with Turgon, and he had never been able to bond with the King in the same way Tuor had, despite his adoption. Perhaps it was because of his unrequited love for Idril. Perhaps not. Either way, Maeglin never truly felt comfortable around him.

Meanwhile the King, obvious to his thoughts, gently steered him over to a chair set beneath a tree and before a round table laden with food. Goblets of glass instead of crystal had been set out, and the wine was of a different sort than the usual; somewhat sour than sweet. Idril had managed to get Eärendil seated by the time they reached the table; Tuor nodded in greeting to Maeglin. As he took his seat he noticed Turgon sitting beside his grandson instead of Idril.  _How odd,_ he thought.

The food had already been set out. There was an omelette mixed with ham and cheese, pancakes covered with blueberries and cream, meat pies, sandwiches with vegetable filling, and for afterward roasted sliced pear with a yogurt sauce poured upon it, flavored with honey. Last but not least, for Idril and Eärendil, a large teapot with hot tea.

It was very appetizing but Maeglin wasn't feeling very hungry, for he usually ate light before springing into work. To be polite he took a sandwich and poured some of the wine, a nice white. Tuor meanwhile had taken some of everything but the tea and was engaged in a conversation with Turgon about the mountain outposts, while Idril listened; Eärendil was busy eating to talk, a rare thing.

Maeglin shrugged and bit down. To his surprise he tasted fish—lightly seasoned with herbs and salt, and moist too. Turgon didn't like fish, for whatever reason, and Aredhel's stories implied it had to do with a rather humiliating event back in his youth in Tirion. Besides, there were no bodies of water in Tumladen and fishing from the mountain rivers was carefully regulated lest they be overfished; as such it was a luxury item even for the ennobled. Maeglin had not tasted fish since coming to live in Gondolin, despite being a Lord, so this was an unexpected pleasure.

His confidence in Turgon restored he took an active interest in what was being said. Tuor was going on about extra training for the guardians in the mountains, and how the walls needed to be strengthened and the patrols tripled. Turgon was silent, nibbling on his omelette as he listened.

"… and so if we fortify the First Gates as outlined before we will be able to have advance notice should anything stumble across the caves."

"And what do we gain by this?"

"Everything, father," Tuor gestured. "We become more secure from the Dark Lord. You know he's been sending scouts and vampires to search us out. I hear the cries of his wolves when on watch."

"Listen, Tuor, Gondolin is safer than any other. We've endured for three and a half centuries, nearly four in fact, under threat of discovery and none has come. The Gondolindrim are strong and mighty and our walls are thick."

"Ulmo—"

"Do not mention to me his words again, Tuor." Turgon's voice hardened slightly. "I will not forsake my lands on the advice of those who abandoned us. Did I not send messengers and sailors seven times across the Great Sea to Valinor? Have any returned?"

"No, but—"

"Then why should I listen to one Vala when his kin have denied me seven times already? What difference would it make? No. The Valar have left us to our fate and I am determined to make the best of it."

Tuor set down his goblet with exaggerated care before speaking. Maeglin, however, could see the anger suffusing his body, the serenity beneath which the rage boiled; Idril had already removed herself and Eärendil a distance aways to play a game. "Then why do you not take any more precautions?" Tuor asked quietly. "The sooner we wait the sooner our doom draws near. The Dark Lord is looking for us."

"I trust in the strength we possess already. Short of arming the women and the children I cannot see what further use of doing so. The propositions you suggest would stretch us thin, and what happens then when a werewolf slips through unnoticed? Do tell me, please."

"Father—"

Maeglin stopped.

Turgon and Tuor looked over to him. "Yes?" the King asked, his tone softening.

"Tuor is right. Short of the Valar, none can stand against him. No—" he held up a hand, as the King started to speak. "Please don't dismiss my words. I've spent several months —I cannot tell—in captivity and  _he_ is not to be underestimated. The number of times his servants asked of me this very city's name is more than I can recall, and he is desperate. If I were not his only lead he would have killed me, and look, I've escaped, with one of his prized thralls in tow, and this would enrage him only that much more."

"Of course, but you are safe here—"

"Don't you understand?" Maeglin said, his voice rising; he stood in a hurry. "Gondolin's days are numbered. When Tuor's forefather came here, long ago, that security was shakened. If he could remember where we were, and hope to find us, then so could Morgoth's vampires—"

"I forbid you to say that name!" Turgon stood, Tuor following a moment later.

"So what if I say it?" Maeglin said. "It's better to say it now while we're still alive than to not say it at all in fear. Tuor's arrival here is a blessing, straight from the Valar—you came as their emissary, did you not?" he gestured to Tuor.

"Yes, yes I did," the Man answered.

"And you dismissed his words! You are the king of Gondolin, Turgon, you should have your people's interests before your own. If there is the slightest hint of danger then we should be ready for it. My escape was almost certainly engineered by an agent of Morgoth's and sooner or later he'll find us. Letting the Eagles patrol the heights are not enough. We need to begin preparations  _now_!"

With a sigh of exhaustion Maeglin fell back into his seat. He reached out and took the last remaining fish sandwich, feeling more hungry than before.

"Maeglin, I know it has been hard, and I do sympathize with your concerns," Turgon began, beginning to settle into his own seat. "But I cannot stretch our forces thin. If we had but a thousand Men or Noldor with us I would consider it but as it stands we are not that strong to devote such resources to it."

"Then—"

"Nor will I leave this city. My word is final on that. Should the outer defenses be breached we can evacuate to the caves and remain there indefinitely. The Dark Lord cannot maintain this offensive of his forever. Trust me—I oversaw this city's construction, and I know every little thing about it. Neither of you do."

"But—"

"Tuor, no." He waved his hand in emphasis. "I will not seek counsel with the Valar. I've already sought them out many times before, instead of a host they send only a Man. I have made my decision and I forbid either of you to bring it up again."

Tuor started to speak again but Turgon's eyes pinned him. "And this goes for your ally, Rog, also."

"Very well, my King." With that Tuor stood, bowed formally, and strode off to his wife and son. Eärendil whined as his father took him by the hand but submitted, and the family disappeared.

There was silence for a time, broken by the occasional noise from the city around them. Maeglin toyed with the remnants of his meal. At last Turgon cleared his throat.

"I hope the fish was to your liking, Lómion," he said. "I thought you would appreciate it."

"Thank you."

At this noncommittal response Turgon switched to another subject. "Look, Maeglin, at times I feel I have made many mistakes. Everyone does at times, even kings."

Maeglin nodded but did not answer.

"What I'm trying to say is that you're pushing yourself too much. You should be resting—"

"I could but my imprisonment by his hands weighs heavy on me." Maeglin's tone was dry and ironic.

"Well, yes, about that. I will not forbid you from helping Tuor and Rog; that is your right to do as you please. But as a father I am concerned for you, Lómion. It was by no fault of your own you became Lord of your House, and I must admit I had been too firm on that."

"If you're saying that you shouldn't have killed Eöl, my birth-father, please do not. My mother was killed unjustly and by the law his death was well-earned."

"Yes… yes… about that. He was the Lord of the House of the Mole, was he not? And when he died you took over?" When Maeglin did not answer Turgon pressed onward. "Look, what I'm saying is this: you are young, and had barely matured when Lordship was conferred upon you. Now with recent events you should be resting and regaining your strength. I see it in your eyes—your  _fëa_ is hot but the flesh is not."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is you need someone to help you, to take the burden off of your shoulders." Turgon leaned forward and put his hands upon Maeglin. "You haven't mingled often with the Gondolindrim in all of your time here. I appreciate all that you have done for my city, but I think it is time I did something for you."

Maeglin slowly started to grasp what Turgon was getting at, and felt cold all of a sudden. "But, how…?"

"In a few month's time, at the Winter Solstice, I'll be holding a grand gala in the palace. Everyone will be invited to come, including you. In fact, I expect you to be there, Lómion."

"No, really, I don't think—"

Turgon laughed. "Come on, Lómion, what are you afraid of? It is a gala. You are still young, and there are many fine young ladies there you haven't seen in all of your time working. One day you'll marry but right now you have done yourself no favors in that regard. Why, when I was your age I had already married my dear Elenwë and had joy and bliss. I would have you partake of that blessing soon."

"But I'm not look—"

"Now, now, none of that. You haven't found the right person yet. It's understandable. But even if you aren't looking for one, please, do come to the gala. Perhaps you may find her there."

Maeglin stared at his uncle, who looked earnest and sincere. He understood then the reason why Turgon invited him to breakfast. Not only to get him comfortable, the fish sandwiches notwithstanding, but also to ease this in where he could not escape.

"How long shall it last?" he asked feebly.

"One evening, past midnight. It begins when the Sun goes down. No excuses."

"I wasn't planning on any," he answered. "I'll come."

"Splendid!" Turgon then switched subjects again. "When would you be free for dinner? I understand the mines are long and hard work, so lunch will be out of the question."

"I'll send a runner."

"Good, good! Then it is settled."

Maeglin stood, thanked Turgon for the breakfast, then departed for work. Notwithstanding the argument he had come to like the King again. Much of his unease had melted. But the thought of meeting other folk, especially women he was not familiar with, filled him with dread, and it was not out of shyness at all.

No, his heart had already been claimed by another, though he did not know it yet.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

In another part of the palace gardens, connected to the Healing wing, Rûsa rested beneath a tree among some flowers growing wild around its base, dressed in a sky-blue dress. The healers had only inquired about the corset and were satisfied with her answers that it was fine.

She caressed the head of a dandelion, feeling its soft fibers and warmth from the Sun amidst the cool shade of the tree. It was perhaps a trifle colder than as was usual but she hardly knew the difference anymore. Being away from the temperatures of Angband had helped her in many things but she had not yet developed a proper temperature sense since there were never any seasonal changes around Angband. But despite this it wasn't uncomfortable like it would be to Tuor, a Man, as the elves were hardy beings. Only the Valar, and perhaps not even them, would have know how long a Man could have endured in Angband for a century, as she had done, since she did not know when she was born and thus did not really know her actual age. But Rûsa knew that she should be old enough to carry children had she not been so small and so weak. She barely looked her supposed age, let alone her actual one, but she knew that she was older than she seemed.

" _Something seems to change in the air… I wonder what it is…_ " she thought, still playing with the bulb.

It was the autumn air she felt, a calm soothing psithurism as the breeze picked up, though she hardly knew it. She could hear people in the distance, but didn't want to leave the shadow under the tree. Normally she would have hid herself away but now she barely stirred at the sound. She had grown accustomed to it. Moreover she didn't want to leave her comfortable spot, not where the Sun could get to her.

She remembered the horrible sunburns that had been left on her skin as they journeyed from Angband to this place in the mountains. Her skin was so dry and so sensitive that within a few hours there was pain all over her, pain enough that she caught a fever nearly unto to death. They were long-healed but she remembered it clearly as if it were yesterday instead of several months. Curiously, the memories of pain in Angband were gone, replaced by something abstract.

Rûsa did not notice Maeglin walking past until a darker shadow fell upon her and she looked up, half startled. At first she thought it was a healer from the gait, quiet and soft, but mentally sighed with relief when she saw who it was. Maeglin continued on past and took a seat upon a nearby stone bench, his back to her.

"I—Is something wrong, my Lord?" she ventured after studying him.

He did not answer her.

Rûsa stood slowly and moved over to him, cautiously. There seemed to be a storm of conflicted feelings hidden behind that bowed back, which hurt inside. What caused this? she wondered. Empathy was a rare gift for a healer, and even rarer for those whose whole lives were spent in the Dark Lord's realm, but she possessed enough to sense his stormy feelings.

She reached out, but paused. Rûsa then remembered the kindness he had shown her two days ago, of how he had comforted her despite his own weariness. It had been a selfless act, perhaps as repayment for her efforts toward him all those months ago. How had he remembered after so long…?

She rested her hand on his shoulder. Maeglin stirred and looked back. "Rûsa?"

"It's me, Maeglin." Rûsa took a seat beside him, instinctively curling into his side. "You're troubled. What is it?"

He remained quiet but looked at her several times, as if gathering his thoughts. She said nothing, recognizing his need for silence. At last he began, somewhat hesitantly:

"I just feel heckled at times."

"Is it the paper-work?"

"No, no, none of the sort. The paperwork is easy to manage—all I have to do is sign my name on most of them." He cracked a thin smile at her choice of subject. "I don't have problems with it, although I would like to have more sleep."

"Is it the little boy?"

"No, not Eärendil. His parents have him well-handled. I'm just the glorified babysitter when they need it."

"What's a babysitter?" she asked, tilting her head.

"That's someone charged with watching younglings while their parents are out. It's a respected profession for the younger folk in Gondolin."

"Oh." She thought about that for a while. "Is  _Itarillë_ —" she carefully sounded out the word, somewhat unsure on the right sound. "—my babysitter?"

Maeglin looked surprised at her pronunciation of Idril's Father-name. "No, of course not. She's in charge of the healers, and as she should be. Her kind and gentle nature makes her the perfect candidate for it."

"She's been kind to me."

"That she has been. She's a good soul."

She smiled briefly, but he had turned away and so missed it. "What's the matter? You seem disappointed."

"Disappointed is the right word," he admitted.

"Then what is the matter?"

"My uncle, Turgon, doesn't seem to understand that I've no wish to play his games."

"The King, yes?"

"The very same. We had breakfast not too long ago. He… said something I was not pleased about. He has spoken about it several times before I… came to be in Angband, as you know. It is something related to my future, so to say. But I do not want it to happen the way he wants me to."

In a way Rûsa could relate to his situation. Being a slave she had no say in her own life and was at the mercy of others. Maeglin was a Lord, she knew that, but was the King in change of the Lords here, as the Dark Lord was to Sauron?

"I… I hope that he will change his mind then. Itarillë has said that family members should listen to one another, otherwise they will only make themselves unhappy. That is the root to your feelings right now, yes?" It clicked then in Rûsa's mind that she hadn't stuttered once in what was an awkward conversation. She hadn't thought it odd at first but she realized that with only the two of them she felt very relaxed.

Maeglin meanwhile continued: "That is precisely why. Uncle is stubborn, and he rarely changes his mind about something…"

He felt something soft being pressed into his hand. He looked down to find Rûsa giving him a piece of bread. Where she had gotten it from he couldn't tell.

"Sometimes it helps to eat if you are sad," she said.

"I'm not hungry," he said automatically.

" _Eat_ ," she insisted in an unusually commanding voice, glaring closely at him in a manner that would have looked funny, had she been a small child.

Maeglin looked at the piece very closely—he recognized it as from the Healing wings, that special bread made for patients who were getting used to solid food again. He then understood how she'd acquired it. Stealing had been a way of life for her, once, and while she had grown more used to this newer life, some habits remained the same. Perhaps Idril knew of it. Or not—Rûsa was good at sneaking past people and her small body helped to blend into the shadows if it was enough dark in a corner where she could hide with her stolen prize.

He nodded once and ate it. It was sweet, but not overbearing. As he ate, Rûsa smiled in pleasure, happy that she had managed to make him eat. She had hated to force-feed fellow slaves and preferred when she could make them eat after a talking instead.

"Thank you," Maeglin said once he had finished, thanking her more for listening to him than the gift.

She ducked her head, cheeks starting to burn. "It was no trouble," she demurred. A sudden pressure made Rûsa tense—but then she saw he was giving her a hug. She then relaxed and returned the hug tentatively.

Maeglin felt the changes in her posture from apprehension to easement, and he smiled with pleasure. She had come far. Suddenly one of the large bells around the city rang, signaling that it was noon.

"I need to go to my work. I am already late having stayed so long," Maeglin explained apologetically, letting go. Knowing partly that feeling herself, Rûsa released him in kind.

"Then go, before you waste even more time!"

Nodding in agreement, Maeglin hurried along the street, but not without a farewell wave with his hand.

As he disappeared from the gardens, Rûsa placed her arms about her again. She had felt warm in that embrace, and it wasn't from the Sun or mere bodily contact. She couldn't yet put a finger to it, but neither was she frightened, only curious. But it was a good feeling, and she had liked it.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors' notes: Reviews are always welcome, and let us know your thoughts.


	5. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rûsa explores a new place with Idril, while the Dark Lord draws near.

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_**The Library** _

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 **_"Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength."  
_ ** _―Sigmund Freud_

_A few days later_

"Rûsa, would you like to take a walk in the city?"

She looked up from her morning meal in the middle of finishing the last spoonful of porridge, puzzled. "Aren't—aren't I supposed to be resting here?"

Idril nodded. She held an opened shawl in her hands. "Yes, but you need to do more than take walks in the gardens and learn the names of my family. I thought a nice stroll down into the city would be good for your health. After all, you'll need to get comfortable with your freedom."

Rûsa nodded, a small sigh escaping her, and pushed away from the table. A servant immediately appeared and cleaned away her plate and cutlery. As always the puzzled thought would cross her mind, why are there so many servants for the littlest of things? She could understand why the healers did it, for such chores were common enough back in her old life, for they needed to be cleaned lest infection spread. This, however, seemed to be a tad excessive, at least in her modest view.

Idril wrapped the shawl about the petite woman's shoulders and led her to the door. Rûsa went along without complaint but looked back with a wistful expression—the hospital wing had become a kind of home to her over these several months of healing and rest, and it was all she knew that wasn't totally alien in this unfamiliar city of white stones. Everything else, even the gardens outside, appeared to be outside her comfort zone. Unbidden, another thought came to her:  _was this what Maeglin felt at times?_

Once they left the hospital wing, Idril guided Rûsa along the streets. As it was early morning not many folk were out, the majority of the working men having already gone to the mines or the farms, while the shops where the women worked would not open for a few hours. It was then that it struck Rûsa, of how gigantic Gondolin seemed to be—far more differently than Angband, with the open sky providing a much clearer reference than underground caves. If she hadn't been getting acclimated in the gardens she would have frozen in fright. As it were, she simply would have gotten lost with so many new places to explore yet everything looked the same.

"It… it is… big…!" she gasped, eyes refusing to close.

Idril felt the pressure of Rûsa's hand tightening. It was amazing at the amount of strength she possessed for one who'd been malnourished her whole life.

"Relax, I am with you," Idril said, attempting to calm her, for Rûsa had started trembling.

At the reassurance the trembling stopped. "I a—am sorry," she whispered, shame coloring her. Idril said nothing but pulled her a little closer and gave her a squeeze.

"Come, we shall go this way."

"Whe—Where are we going?"

"To the library. You have a bright mind, Rûsa, and that shouldn't be wasted. I've noticed you pining for lack of things to do, so I thought it'd be perfect to step out."

"But I can't read!"

"Which is why we shall ensure that you will learn," Idril answered with a smile. "Here in Gondolin it is frowned on if someone past a young age can not read or write, it is seen as a failure in their education and reflects poorly on their teachers."

"Oh… okay."

They went on until a large white building loomed before them. It was unlike any other Rûsa had seen in the city. It stood in the center of a large garden, surrounded by fountains and groves, apart from the main streets of Gondolin. Tall decorated columns with statues of soldiers between supported a huge pyramidal roof crowned with flowering designs and beautiful swirly things. A broad stairway led up to double-doors upon a flat platform spanning the width of the building, flung wide open to indicate the place was free to come and go in.

Inside, the stark whiteness of its exterior—painful to her eyes—was replaced by dark browns and tans. Once Rûsa had adjusted to the more gentle colors she couldn't help but stare open-mouthed at all of the bookshelves and tables everywhere. By her limited reckoning there were hundreds of books just from where she stood, all bound in rich leather cases of red colors.

Between countless more shelves they walked, Rûsa craning her head every which way to look. She was so spellbound in wonder over this place that she failed to notice that Idril kept walking forwards after releasing her hand. Then she became aware. However she'd been alone often enough in Gondolin to not devolve into unnecessary worry and panic, and her trust of Idril had grown immensely since.

"L—Lady Idril?" she called out, taking a few unsure steps to the left. Hopefully Idril was not too far away. Silence answered her.

Deciding there was no use in running around, and trusting that Idril would come back eventually, she decided to make herself comfortable. Wandering over to a nearby table she took a seat and contented herself by trying to analyse this "library" as thoroughly as she could. Maybe there were some images she could watch somewhere.

A hint of sunlight made her look up, and saw two mirror paintings of a peaceful day in spring and what seemed to be a large amount of not-so-calm water beneath the sun. It was similar to the churning Fountains of the city outside but on a much broader scale than she was used to, for in Angband there had been no large bodies of water.

The other painting reminded her of the Healing wing's gardens, only more expansive and…  _grand_ … now that she knew what that word meant from Idril's lessons. Some of the trees pictured were enormous and she wondered where they could possibly be. Little did she know she was looking at a stylized representation of the mythical Spring of Arda.

So it was that as she searched the paintings for other oddities to keep her attention occupied did Maeglin come upon her.

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Today was one of those rare days where Maeglin had absolutely no work to occupy his mind. What little paperwork he did have was easily finished, and then he had nothing more to do. Faced with this unexpected moment of free time he was at a loss at what to do.

So he decided to go to the library. Not the royal library in the palace, no; he didn't want to meet Turgon, and "accidentally" veer into a conversation about galas and marriage. It wasn't that he disliked the King, far from it, as Turgon had been making himself more easily relatable and friendlier than ever. He just wanted to have some time to himself that wasn't work or dining. That left the great public library of Gondolin, one of the only remaining places where he knew no one would expect him. He did like to read, but did not borrow books that often.

The library also happened to be a place full of all Eldaron lore East of Valinor, including the collated wisdom and knowledge of his Avari kin. He found books to read about the stories Eöl (somewhat uncertainly) had told him in childhood when Aredhel would run out of bedtime stories, and others from other Avari clans he had not known about. Those had offered very different views on how the world had been created, and their own interpretations of the Valar, which many held to be dark entities like Morgoth. It had also helped Maeglin to see why Eöl had been acting as he had been doing, especially when reading some rather unnerving eyewitness accounts of how entire Elven clans had been either killed or enslaved in Angband, hints of the behaviour Eöl had shown as a very traumatized survivor from a such attack. There were even some recent tomes on how the Avari saw the Noldor, as avenging warriors from the distant West to defeat Morgoth, similar to how the Sindar had seen them before their disillusionment.

Striding up the stairs, thinking about what books to read— _should I look at_ "Herbs and Their Applications"  _or_ "Of the Dwarven lands of Orocarni and the Mythic Lands of the Far East" _?_ —he entered the silent sanctum of the main hall without any noise. As soon as he crossed the threshold peace dropped upon his shoulders, chasing away his unease, in particular the shadow-women haunting his mind with predatory smiles and dark laughter.

Ever since he learned about the gala it had refused to go away, distracting him quite unreasonably from his obssession. He knew that many of the noble maidens were not really like that in terms of personality, but given that many would try and be chosen for his future wife… the stuff of nightmares, indeed. As if he had time for romance, ha. His work was more important—if Morgoth came in the night and attacked, there wouldn't be a city for him to settle down and have children. He was in no hurry to raise a family, as was the nature of the Elves, but it did not mean that he disliked the idea in the long run.

Being not even two-hundred years meant that Maeglin still was a rather young Elf, his coming begetting-day marking only a mere ninety years since coming of age, and not everyone wanted to marry young. Even though families were the norm there were other pressing matters to attend to first. The safety of the city came before his own personal happiness. Besides, the nightmares did not just involve the destruction of Gondolin but also the death of all her people, if Morgoth was not feeling generous. Maeglin would not subject his family or any future children to that fate…

He stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, inhaling the dry scent of parchment and the more sea-smelling inks. It was a pleasant contrast, different from the rough charcoal he used to sign his papers. He felt at peace.

When he opened them Maeglin was greeted with a surprising, but familiar sight.

"Rûsa?" Maeglin asked in honest surprise as he beheld her red mane turning to and fro as she looked up into the ceiling. He had not expected to find her here, as this was the last place he thought she would go. Then he thought about Idril, for where Rûsa was, his cousin would be here also. Where was she, and why had she left the girl alone?

At the sound of his voice she turned to him, her eyes visibly unfocusing as she disengaged from the paintings. She didn't look too surprised to see him but there was relief beneath that shawl.

"Mi—Mi'lord Maeglin." Well, that was one small step of her using his actual name instead of a title, but a step it was.

She pulled on the shawl so her face was almost hidden, perhaps out of nervousness, or a longing to disappear back into obscurity. Old habits died hard, indeed. "L—Lady Idril mentioned something about returning a book and I got lost," she murmured.

"I can see that, but why are you here?"

"My health, and… learning to read." The last was spoken in an almost whisper.

"Oh, I see now." Maeglin came over to sit beside her, making sure she was aware of his footsteps. "I had forgotten."

"Why are you here, mi'lo—Maeglin?"

"The same as the past week. Rest from work. This time, however, I finished it all early, and I wanted a quiet place to come to." He confessed honestly, "I like places like these, they're so peaceful and beautiful, in a quiet way."

"Yes," she murmured, knowing what he meant. They both remained quiet for a little while, unsure what to say next, until she asked, "Ma—Maeglin, sometimes when I—I listen to the healers, they me—mention some people named Varda and Estë. Are the—they important people here, like th—the King and you?"

Maeglin had not really expected that question, but it wasn't that unusual concerning her background. Still, he found it odd she'd ask him about this and not Idril.  _She probably feels more comfortable around me_ , he decided. Her question was a valid one, though; no one knew much about the Valar apart from the Exiles and Thingol's people, who were now scattered to the winds. He could show her some books that discussed them but then he remembered they were all thick tomes with no pictures and all words.

He decided to probe the depth of her knowledge first before entering those waters:

"Before I answer, I have to ask you something in turn."

"Of course," she said in surprise.

"Back in Angband, did it ever happen that you prayed? Or worship someone higher than Morgoth, who watched over you and protected you from the orcs?"

Much to his private relief, Rûsa admitted that she knew only of the most wicked orcs and human followers worshipping Morgoth as the Dark Lord. In fact, the slaves had feared him too much for such worship outside desperate pleading for mercy at grave injuries or incoming death. In fact it had been one of Sauron's more unusual tasks to make humans worship Morgoth, since he could take fair forms and speak honeyed words to deceive them. All she knew about it was that Sauron had managed to catch the Eastern humans into that snare of lies and darkness.

"When I and my f—fellow healers left dead slaves to be t—taken away, we would often whisper a p—prayer to the Judge that he would show m—mercy to their souls. And we also pray to the Lady of Light to g—give us strength to carry on in our tasks, the Lady of Mercy is a—asked to help new s—slaves either adjust quickly or be taken to the Judge, and to the Guardian that we be s—spared from harm."

Maeglin's curiosity was piqued. The similarities of those titles coincided exactly with those Valar whose responsibility lay in those areas. He was surprised that Mandos was known to them, although he was unsure who "the Guardian" was.

And why not? Those slaves born in Angband would surely have parents from those elves who refused the Great Journey, but it was surprising that they clung to this faith with tenacity. His own mother, who had taught him about the Powers to begin with, admitted she had lost her own faith in them after the Doom of Mandos and the harsh years of surviving on the Grinding Ice. Eöl, who had never liked to speak about the Valar at all, merely had told Maeglin to not think about them as they had no place in his life.

"I will not go far, I am fetching something," he said, rising from his place beside her.

Thankfully, the book he had in mind was not too far away and he could return after only a few minutes.

"What do you have there?" Rûsa asked in a way which may have sounded childish, but was excusable in that she would not have seen a book up-close before. Though she may not have seen that many books prior to coming to the library she could see the colors—red leather with gold embroidery—in his hand. The gold embroidery formed letters that she could not read.

"Imagine all the stories you may have heard, all held in your hands," Maeglin began, explaining in a way she could understand. "Life stories, helpful stories, imagined stories—they can all be found in books. They are our way of recording history, sharing our lives, even entertaining children. As long as there is a book those stories will never die, not even if their writer passes on. In a way, you can even say that it allows someone to live on, even with their name being forgotten in time. Books are the lifeblood of our civilized world."

He then pressed the book into her small hands. "Open it and tell me what you see."

Maeglin watched how she, in almost childish curiosity, touched the book, moving her hands and fingers over the leather cover; and then on the pages of parchment, her eyes wide as she realized that she could actually move each page after lifting the leather cover to one side. He noted her eyes reacting when she discovered each page was a picture; it was subtle but there.

"It… seems to be a… Lord and Lady?" she wondered, scanning the pages closely.

"When you mentioned which gods you would pray to before our escape," Maeglin answered approvingly, "I thought this picture book may help explain which gods"— _roughly speaking_ —"that Elves outside Angband believe in."

Fitting enough, the first two pictures was of Manwë and Varda, so Maeglin started to tell what he knew about them, Rûsa listening intently.

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At the same time, Turgon was in a room known as "The Royal Chamber of Memories" among his people because of the small shrine dedicated to Elenwë's memory, his late wife. He stood before a casket, representative of his wife's tomb, his hand caressing the cold stone, head bowed.

"Elenwë… I wish that you were here, alive, so you could help me explain to Maeglin why he needs to marry." Turgon spoke to no one in the room, knowing that she lay in Mandos' realm. Yet it comforted him to speak, for he had no one to confess to.

Even to this day, Turgon was haunted by the memory—of her terrified scream as she went through the weak spot of ice into the dark waters where so many had frozen to death before her; of holding her cold, lifeless body in his arms; of little Idril's despairing cries for her mother to wake up, neither realizing that she was gone; the people gathered round him, sharing in his sorrow. Fingolfin and Fingon had been forced to pull him away while Aredhel picked up Idril in her arms, the fragile ice threatening to give way, and they had been forced to let Elenwë's body slide back down into the depths as they hurried onward.

Over five hundred elves had been lost to the Ice, either by the endless cold weather, frostbite-related injuries, or starvation due to a lack of food; among them were many premature infants born too early as their mothers were too weak to carry to full term. There had even been cases of married couples killing their own children before themselves to spare them the horrors of dying upon the Ice.

"I know that he is still young, but with our relatives dying one after another in the war against Morgoth… he and our dear Idril may be the only ones left in their generation who are old enough to have royal children of their own. Nargothrond fell fourteen years ago, and after Doriath the Fëanorians are reviled…"

Her loss encapsulated all of that in his eyes. He had been a bad ruler, trusting in his uncle to not burn the Swan ships stolen from the Teleri, and for that he refused to forget. The memory of seeing the huge fire light up the sky so far away, the dawning horror as they realized themselves to be stuck and would only reach Middle-earth by crossing the Grinding Ice.

"Please, help me, beloved. I do not ask much, just something to make him  _understand_ …"

He sighed deeply with a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand left the bas relief, carved as if she were sleeping. She was clothed in the garments of their wedding day, so long ago, so far away.

Turgon was honestly torn about what to do with his nephew. Normally, he would have been forced to exile or even execute Maeglin for breaking the law, but in reality the boy was still family who had technically done nothing wrong—or Aredhel would have been executed also. Without him it would just be himself, Idril, and Eärendil left of royal blood here in Gondolin. Knowing the fate of his cousins and siblings, who had all died, Tugon could not afford it. The House of Fingolfin needed to grow, even through Maeglin as a female line thanks to Aredhel as his mother.

In his eyes, their small family almost seemed like a mockery when remembering how many grandchildren Finwë had ended up from his three sons: Fëanor's seven children, Fingolfin's four, and Finarfin's five. Sixteen cousins in total, three sets of siblings. Out of those sixteen, only himself, Galadriel, and four of the Fëanorians remained alive, as far as Turgon knew.

How the mighty had fallen.

"He needs to marry. I can only hope that I will be able to find him a suitable wife among the unwed noble ladies and daughters who are of age. We cannot afford to wait for her coming-of-age ceremony, it must be a young lady old enough to marry and have children as soon as possible… It will be a grand ceremony, befitting that of a prince and the new princess." Already he could see Maeglin settled down in marital bliss, the only gift he could give him.

But Turgon could understand why he did not want to settle down. The shock of imprisonment and his mindless obsession with work would conspire to put a man on edge when it came to do with matters of the heart. He was just too fast paced to think about slowing down. But in the long run Gondolin came first, and as Eärendil's birth just six summers ago had given him hope, then so would Maeglin's eventual marriage. Even if he had to arrange one himself.

They needed something to place their hope on, anything to remove the thoughts of Morgoth and the dangers of Angband. He had built Gondolin as a safe haven from Morgoth, there was no way he planned to let it be ruined.

Turgon looked up at his wife's fair smile, which had always seemed so sad to him, and felt resolve hardening in his heart. He would see his nephew be married, one way or another, before the Noldor doomed themselves completely.

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Over the next half-hour as they spoke about the Valar, Maeglin learned much about Rûsa. There was a promising mind there, unlearned for now, but it surely would become even grand as she learnt evermore. She was much more intelligent than he had given her credit but never had any chance to use that gift while living as a slave. Her shyness had melted away once she had something to do, and she grasped the differences between the Valar quickly, asking questions to broaden her understanding.

"So the Lady Varda is  _also_ the Lady of Light we pray to in Angband? If her light comes from the stars up in heaven, then we've been praying to her all along?" she asked, eyes alight.

"Yes. As far as I know, that really is one of her titles." He then pointed to another picture in the book. "There is her husband, Manwë Súlimo, the true High King of Arda. Morgoth has no claim to his lordship, he was only ever a usurper."

"What is a usurper?" Rûsa wondered in confusion, once again making Maeglin smile in answer.

Idril, who had needed that time in order to find the librarian so she could return her borrowed book properly and not get a reminder-note, had not noticed she had left Rûsa behind until now. She had assumed that the girl would follow her, and had been surprised (and delighted) to find her excitedly talking away with Maeglin over a simple child's book about the Valar. She had known of Maeglin's tendency to be around small children when out and about on his own leisure time, especially those whose parents worked for him, but this was the first time Idril had actually seen him with an older person of the fairer sex of his own accord. She knew, and fully understood why he was not too fond of the noble girls at the royal court, having heard him complain about their air-headed silliness many times. She knew it was because they were so different from the young She-elves of his home whom he had grown up with.

In Nan Elmoth, as far as Idril understood from what little Maeglin had revealed about his childhood, the girls were encouraged to take up masculine skills such as hunting, farming, smithing, and anything else, all of which would have shocked the gently bred Gondolindrim nobility. It was a difference of culture, but also of circumstance—outside the protection of Melian's Girdle everyone of Maeglin's home needed to be versatile, lest the menfolk suddenly perish and leave their women defenseless. Maeglin had told her that Eöl himself had trained Aredhel in the arts of both bow and the sword, in accordance with this culture, and had been exceedingly proud of her mastery of it, even boasting of her if he felt merry enough after drinking some strong ale among the Dwarves when he brought Maeglin to one of their feasts.

Thus, having grown up in such an atmosphere, it was no wonder that he had little desire or even patience to mingle amongst the womenfolk here. Perhaps his ideal image of a bride matched what he had known there—and, she suspected, that perhaps was what he had seen in her also. In an odd way, that made Idril feel proud over Maeglin, even as it clashed with her worry about his previous feelings towards her.

"Then the Judge should be Lord Námo, right?" Rûsa said, pointing at an image where a hooded person in a dark purple cloak could be seen surrounded by white glows meant to symbolize souls.

"Yes. He is the one of change of the Halls of Mandos, where the spirits of the dead rest until they have healed enough for rebirth in Valinor."

That made her look up at him. Her black eyes stared at him with a strange penetrating intensity that gave him shivers. Then it faded somewhat as she seemed to realize something.

"Does that mean my parents could be  _alive_?! In Valinor!?"

That came as a total surprise for both Maeglin and Idril. In fact, this was the first time Rûsa had even mentioned anything about her birth parents to either of them. Her general behaviour had hinted that she was an enslaved orphan, most likely from a very early age, but not anything that revealed how she had lost her parents.

Choosing to step in before Maeglin was backed into a corner by incoming questions, Idril revealed herself:

"Having fun, you two?"

"Ah… yes," Maeglin responded, grateful that she had shown up. Rûsa, who had been on the way to ask a new question, pushed it back down, changing her reactions to a more neutral manner. "I happened to stop by," he explained, telling Idril about his sudden free time.

"Good, good," she answered. "You should get out more often, Maeglin. As a healer, I can tell you with authority that your current behavior is not healthy, and in fact you may end up in the Healing wing again before the week is out."

Before he could answer she then directed a question to Rûsa: "How was your time here? I'm sorry for leaving you behind, I thought you wouldn't be too far."

Rûsa replied, "It wasn't… it wasn't too bad, Lady Idril. I was all right."

"That's good! Shall I leave you two here for a little longer while I search for some more books, or do you wish to return home?"

"I would like to stay."

"Excellent." Idril smiled at her, then at Maeglin, before taking her leave.

Maeglin looked somewhat surprised, but shrugged as Rûsa returned to her book, now engrossed in a section about Yavanna's gardens.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

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Outside the Echoriad, in the wide valley called the Dry River by the Gondolindrim, a raven dove from the sky and caught a small mouse that wandered out of hiding. At first glance the predator now biting off the rodent's head looked normal—but closer inspection revealed a different story. The eyes were flame gold, not black.

As it finished its meal the raven saw something quite unusual in the surrounding wastes. A pillared arch with riveted portcullis, cleverly hidden from the casual eye, was plain as the Sun shining overhead to the bird's eye.

There was no way this could have been here before unless the Valar had willed it. The Vala of Water did not build things with stone and wood, and neither had the Smith been seen since the Darkening. The Dwarves had never lived this far north, and none of the Atani had settlements.

That left only Elves.

Finishing its meal the raven flew off.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

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Maeglin felt that this had to be a good day somehow. Or at least, a very good day for him. Sure, he had not expected to find Rûsa and Idril in the library, but he could see his cousin's point about Rûsa needing to become used to buildings outside the healing wings. If she ever was to learn normal social behaviour, that was the best way.

 _Wonder if I could help out with something…_  Maeglin mused.  _Maybe she would be comfortable around some of the more quiet and less energetic children… Eärendil may have too much energy for her to remain calm around for now…_

Yes, that sounded logical. Rûsa's very behaviour when first meeting Eärendil told him that she was not used to children, especially not someone with such youthful energy either, so he would need to talk about the idea with Idril.

On the other hand, he also had come to think of something else.  _Given that she was the only one to actually be kind to me in Angband and never tried to harm me, maybe it is no wonder that I feel comfortable around her…_

Maeglin could remember how Rûsa, at times, had taken great risks in stealing food so he could eat more than the small ration he had been given by the orc guards. Sauron had tried to starve him with only a bare minimum of food and water in an attempt to make him reveal Gondolin when his hunger would be too great and he would have been tempted with food. Thankfully Rûsa had indirectly stopped that from happening through her efforts at ensuring he was alive.

 _I just hope that she did not give all her own food to me…_  he thought with a shudder as the memory of how malnourished she had been in Angband floated before him.

She had weighed so little that she had felt more like a child of Eärendil's age than whatever her actual age was; he couldn't have told the difference, however, as he carried her the final few leagues to Gondolin. He too had been weak from the long journey with so little food and water they had managed to take along, giving her all he could find when he had spotted edible plants and herbs. Most of it had been vomited back up because of her fever making her unable to eat much, but she had remained alive until they were found.

 _To actually see her smile, even if it was just a hint of a smile…_ he started to remember with fondness.

"Lord Maeglin!"

Someone was calling his name and looking over his shoulder, Maeglin saw that it was Tinwen.

"Yes, my lady?" he asked in slight unease, slowing down for her to catch up.

"Why didn't you come by? Didn't you see the invitation I sent you?"

"Sometimes such letters find themselves buried among my paperwork, I may not have found it because one of the errand boys tripped on the carpet and knocked over a literal pile of papers straight off my desk."

Not a full lie, it had actually happened at times in the past as he attempted to catch up with any delayed work. More than once he'd cursed the carpet and its whole family after picking himself off the floor, and he planned getting rid of it one day, but somehow had never found the time.

"Then you should get more competent servants," Tinwen said with her arms crossed, not looking impressed. Maeglin winced.

The young Elves in the House of the Mole often started their work by running various errands for the adults, and they were proud to help Maeglin when he asked them to get things for him. It was not their fault that accidents happened.

"Maybe so, but they do the best they could and I only select those whose families work for me in the mines," he said very carefully. How could she know the bonds of family, or that of the tribe, when she only had her parents here in Gondolin, as the rest of her relatives were said to remain in Valinor across the sea?

One of the few things Turgon had obliged Maeglin after Eöl's death was to relocate the people of Nan Elmoth to Gondolin, fearing for their safely if Morgoth's orcs set fire to the large forest and enslave them. It had taken many months but at long last the full House of the Mole had moved in, and became full citizens of the Hidden City. Things had to change somewhat slightly as tribes were now irrelevant due to the familial system practised in Valinor, but the strong tribal loyalties had remained, as Maeglin was the highest-ranked of them as Eöl's son. Yet he knew that not everyone was comfortable in living in the city, and he knew that there were many untold problems about how the children were to be raised. More than once Maeglin had overheard a father or mother complain about not getting to give a daughter the training they had had in Nan Elmoth.

"They better not embarrass you as their Lord, then," she sniffed. "Bad behaviour from servants reflects on the master, you know."

Hiding an inner groan, Maeglin answered. "They are not Gondolindrim but are Elmothdrim, my people from east Doriath. We have different ways there and this carries over. I am not particularly offended if one makes a mistake—my father committed the most grievous sin and brought dishonor upon us all for it. Such minor things have no bearing next to that."

"Well, when you put it in those terms, I can see why you're lenient with them. It must be hard, is it not, to put up with it?"

"Truly, no. I spend most of my days signing papers and overseeing mineral output. They are largely left to their own tasks unless one of the maids brings me tea or a midday meal from the kitchen."

Judging from her raised eyebrow, Tinwen did not seem to find anything to say about that. Maeglin remained silent as they walked onwards, Tinwen talking a lot about this and that, often revealing some badly hidden complaints about her own ladies' maids, who she saw as lazy if not working fast enough or wasn't skilled enough on some task.

"...to ruin some of mother's finest linen tablecloths which she had spent so much time to embroider our family crest on, can you imagine that!"

He only nodded, thinking that she made a big deal out of honest mistakes any servant could do. "Surely you understand that pushing servants to the limits would only end up making them quit work, right?" Maeglin asked.

"Yes… my parents scolded me the first time it happened, saying that they expected me to act better than that." Tinwen opened and closed her hands in agitation. Clearly it was not a fond memory, that mistake. "I hate it when my parents tell me to not act in any manner they think is wrong. Sometimes I even get the feeling that they fail to remember that I came of age two autumns ago."

That was true, Maeglin remembered watching that coming-of-age ceremony, which marked Tinwen and several of her friends as adults, old enough to start being at the court without a servant watching their behaviour. Young Elves in Gondolin often shared the same coming-of-age ceremony if they were born in the same season once everyone's hundredth begetting-day had passed.

"You are still young," he replied. "Two years of being of age is a short time, not everyone can remember those facts all the time. Why, I am still considered a young man despite my office."

That, in turn, made Tinwen ask about his own coming-of-age ceremony so long ago. She had been a very small child when Turgon had held a Noldorin ceremony for Maeglin when he had entered his hundredth spring of life—she had been only thirteen years, about to enter her fourteenth year, at that time—and did not recall all the details from that event. Eighty seven years was not that much of an age difference in adulthood when some centuries had passed, yet it still mattered a lot between young people like them.

"It wasn't much different from yours, save that it was the King who confirmed me, and that it was the second suchlike ceremony for me. The first was when my late father gave me my Father-name at twelve years. Elmothdrim customs are more closely related to the Sindar than the Noldor."

"Your father confirmed you? But what of your mother? Did she not have a say in that?"

"I only know that in really ancient times it was seen as bad luck for the child to be given a father-name before its twelfth year. Something about the child needing to grow up and show what talents it may hold. It is not uncommon with only using the mother-name or a nickname until then. But father… was not fond of hearing Quenya spoken, so mother only used her Sindarin name in company and her other name when alone with me."

Looking back, Maeglin wondered if some of the cultural differences had been one of the troubles in Eöl's and Aredhel's marriage. Raised differently not just because of their gender but also expecting different things from a spouse, and that such things which would be natural in one culture but unacceptable in another would clash against one another. Things people did not think about. The books he read talked about how the Atani had problems with one another because of this, and there were even some discussion on the Dwarves too.

"Sounds like he was pretty controlling, if you ask me." Tinwen said dismissively.

"Things were different there. Mother was Noldo, my father Avaro. They loved one another but often had their differences. Not every place is like Gondolin, Tinwen."

"But surely he ought to have understood that Lady Aredhel was to be treated with more respect, being a royal princess and all, far more in higher rank than a mere lord—"

"And yet he was her husband and lord," Maeglin snapped. "She was given sanctuary in his home. Out there in the darkness of Beleriand, of the endless war against the Dark Lord, do you think she would have been grateful to be waylaid by orcs? To face enslavement or an even worse fate in Angband? No, father took her into his home to prevent a sad fate for her, and feelings grew between them in time during those few years before I was born. They grew to love one another despite their differences,  _Lady_ Tinwen."

Maeglin managed to avoid shouting at Tinwen in his quickly-grown anger over her words, but it had still stuck deeply. Eöl had been somewhat controlling of his family, yes, but not to the degree she thought. For him, it had been a matter of keeping his wife and only child safe from dangers outside Nan Elmoth.

She was taken aback by his outburst nonetheless and was silent. Then, she said: "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. My deepest apologies, my Lord."

"Thank you. You are forgiven."

Thankfully, the voice of a servant coming closer prevented anything from going out of control. "Miss Tinwen! Where are you? You are late for dinner!"

"I bid you a pleasant afternoon, my lady." Maeglin offered with a bow, before leaving her.

Tinwen sighed as he departed, but went back to her home. The servant met her halfway and escorted her, by order of her parents who hated to send their only child out alone. Tinwen knew why; they had lost an elder child on the Grinding Ice, a boy who could have been her older brother had he lived. They did their best to not be overly protective of her, but the loss of their firstborn had left a deep mark in their souls.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

The raven had flown far and wide, evading the Eagles of Manwë, and managed to do a single flyover of Tumladen before flying off surreptitiously to avoid detection.

Hours later, and much backtracking, it flew over the wide dead plain of Anfauglith, arrowing for the dreadful volcanoes of Thangorodrim. It sped swiftly, the dark enchantments wrought upon it empowering its flight. Gliding through grey smoke it dove into a hole punctured in the mountainside, down, down through the labyrinth of tunnels and portals within.

Past endless multitudes of slaves, orc soldiery, and beastly demons, it glided onwards. The slaves working on the forges had thick chains binding them to their stations, orcs with whips watching them. Battalions of orcs trained in vast caverns, while deeper below came the screams of dying souls. The hive of Angband was afire with activity.

Finally, the raven entered a place of utmost fear and horror, brightly lit with red fire, illuminating sharpened pillars shaped in mockery of tree boughs and racks upon racks filled with weapons and instruments of torture. Across the hall stood a monstrous column and beneath it was the empty throne of Morgoth—the Dark Lord was away. Beside it stood a tall man of fair features, dressed in blood-red robes with black embroidery, who looked up as the bird made a beeline toward him.

"What news from the South, O dark child, do you bring to me at eve?" Sauron asked with a purring voice, holding up a hand for it to land. The raven relayed what it had found through simple mental images, as much as its primitive mind—warped by magic—could project.

Sauron became silent, his face momentarily betraying surprise; then he grinned, twistedly, as if a cat's expression of predatory triumph had been afixed to his own. He laughed, and swung his arm. The raven flew off, returning to its duties. This time to stand guard over Gondolin.

"Your luck is at an end, O mighty city of Turgon," he laughed. "As did the rest so has yours. It will be glorious—to think, that you fell, not by treachery, as did all of your sibling realms, but by sheer unmitigated misfortune. Truly your Doom has come."

The Dark Lord would be most pleased to hear of this. Even if they were unable to retrieve any information from the dark Elf which had escaped them, time and patience was on their side regardless. The whole realm of Middle-earth was the Dark Lord's, and nothing remained hidden for long. Sauron's reward would be great.

He went over a table and poured some fine wine in a glass and tasted it, pleasure filling his mind. He started making schemes on how to best encircle and cut off Gondolin from any possible escape before they marched upon the hidden plain of Tumladen.

Perhaps Gothmog's new  _pet_ would see some use after all…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

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	6. Looking to the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rûsa becomes familiar with Gondolin's social life while Tuor prepares for the coming war.

~X~

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* * *

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_**Looking to the Future** _

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* * *

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**_The past cannot be changed. The future is yet in your power._**  
—Unknown

As they left the library, Idril noticed that Rûsa was holding something in her arms. After a quick look, she recognized it as the very same she and Maeglin had been reading. A simple book indeed.

"Did Maeglin help you check it out?" she asked.

Rûsa nodded meekly.

"I see. Well, in the future, you should be able to do it by yourself. Children and youngsters need their parents' written permission to borrow books so they can be returned on time but you should be able to do it on your own."

"Y—Yes. I wanted to learn the real names of the ones we would send s—secret prayers to during whispers," Rûsa confessed shyly, trying to not stutter too much as she spoke. Somehow, it felt… pleasant to know the actual names of the beings other slaves had whispered to, and how she once had done too.

"Let's take another way back across this flower garden, it is useful to know more than one way around here in Gondolin," Idril suggested, stepping off from the main street.

Rûsa could not help but think back on the time she gotten to spend with Maeglin in the library, unplanned as it first had been. The hood over her head helped to hide that she was blushing enormously. She did not know that she was acting like a young woman struck by her first feelings of romance, but it was excusable given that she did not know anything about it due to her old life where such things were unknown.

"I was thinking that you could learn how to read by sharing lessons with my son, Eärendil," Idril said, drawing her attention. "He only started his formal schooling little over a year ago, so with some training I think you may catch up quickly. You have a promising mind, so if we don't hurry it all will be well. Besides, he has a terrible habit of sneaking away to play outside instead, so he is not really where I would wish him to be in his schooling. I was hoping your presence at least would motivate him to continue."

"Eh… yes," she muttered, not really understanding what Idril meant, clasping the book closer to her chest. Even if Maeglin had pointed out the various names on the Valar it did not mean that she actually could read them. It was easier to recognize the names now and would see them in the middle of the other writings, written down in Tengwar, but she still did not know their meaning or even if it was in the same tongue as Sindarin.

Thanks to her time with Rog she had started to learn the differences between the two languages, but it was still almost nothing alike to the polyglot spoken by the Angband slaves. But at least she now could guess why some words in Sindarin had sounded somewhat more familiar, Quenya being much rarer, in hindsight, for some strange reason. Perhaps one day she'd learn why.

Idril just smiled and led the way.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

_The next day…_

Earlier that day Idril had dismissed Eärendil's teacher shortly after breakfast, giving him an unanticipated day free of lessons. He had hoped this meant she'd be home to be with him, but was disappointed when she departed for the House of Healing.

She didn't usually act in this manner when she planned family events, so it had to be something exciting for the both of them. A sober thought lurked beneath, however, as it could be something more ominous. Perhaps she had found an even stricter tutor? The very thought perish!

So it was that when Idril called for him that Eärendil approached with a mix of anticipation and fearfulness. What was this surprise she had brought for them?

The surprise revealed itself to be the mysterious red haired girl from the House of Healing. When Eärendil poked his head around the corner, as apprehension caught him at the last moment, he saw her standing there in the parlor with a kind of dazedness about her. Definitely not a teach—wait, was that a  _book_  in her arms?!

For Rûsa's part she looked around in wonder at the size of the place, despite its relative modesty compared to the palace. If Idril was the princess then why did she not live in grandeur? Surely her royal rank meant a much bigger home than this?

"Eärendil. I would like you to meet Rûsa. Because of reasons out of her control she hasn't had a chance to have schooling, and I was thinking she could learn the basics of reading and writing with you."

Eärendil tried and failed to hide the dread in his eyes. He knew he would be unable to escape his lessons if mother would be around more. Then again, he reasoned, she would be a better teacher than some stuffy servant or book—she looked harmless. This cheered him up more.

"This is Rûsa, Eärendil." Idril pushed the girl, only slightly taller than him, forward; she seemed to try and melt into the folds of Idril's dress.

Eärendil straightened up and bowed—much to Rûsa's surprise—and said respectfully: "Greetings, Lady Rûsa. Welcome to the House of the Wing, home of Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador."

To be honest, Rûsa was shocked by being addressed in a such manner. It was unfamiliar, to be given such respect normally given to those above her in social ranking. Slaves like her never got any such respect, so rare even for those marked with the slave collar of copper like herself. As a result, she was unsure how to react, trying to catch Idril's eyes to get a silent suggestion in how to act.

Idril gave her a small smile, and nodded, indicating she was to introduce herself.

"Thank you, Eärendil," she managed, speaking as clearly as possible. Thankfully, she managed to avoid stuttering while talking. She avoided doing a curtsy like like women did to Idril, not trusting the corset to such movements. Instead she inclined her head slightly.

"Good, I believe that the first lesson can be about letters. Please be seated, both of you," offered Idril with a smile, nodding towards the two chairs at the table. Eärendil gaped at her—he already knew his letters, why did they have to go over them a second time? Idril's gaze hardened and he reluctantly obeyed.

Rûsa tried to move as naturally she could when sitting down, yet he noticed that she seemed to be somewhat awkward even then. Was that the reason she had been in the healing wing, a issue with her back that required healing? A cough from Idril reminded Eärendil that this was a school lesson, and that he needed to focus on the book for now.

"Eärendil, can you show her the first Tengwa on the page?"

He nodded and pointed to a symbol called the  _tinco_ , seemingly identical with the second letter,  _parma_ , and went down the list—not at all willingly. The girl, he noticed, followed his movements like the great big hunting birds grandfather used did when hunting pigeons. Her eyes were alert and clear with concentration, which confused him greatly. Hadn't anyone given her an education before?

Once they finished with the alphabet Idril moved onto the different modes of writing, the most common of which was called the "Beleriand mode", which used full letters for vowels instead of the Tirionese  _tehtar_ , which were an elaborate series ( _témar_ ) of diacritical marks and symbols. Rûsa picked up both quickly, her eyes flashing at times with understanding.

Eärendil noticed this and felt envious. How  _dare_ she learn so quickly than he! He started going faster on the writing exercises Idril had organized for him to show her the basics—she was advancing just as quickly—spurred by the competition.

His mother noticed and smiled to herself. Once they went to reading there would be no doubt that she would be relegated to being an observer while he eagerly, and determinedly, showed Rûsa all about it.

Much good had been done this day.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

At the same time, Tuor entered one of the pubs indirectly owned by his friend Salgant, the Lord of the House of the Harp. He was no stranger to seeing Salgant acting oddly at times, and hid a chuckle upon seeing the Lord struggle with his balance in the middle of a merry dance, his partner giggling, due to his portliness. When he did a misstep the Elf Lord managed to land on a table right beside Tuor and fell off onto the floor. While the Man once had been shocked the first time seeing it happen, he had learnt to not worry over time.

"Are you having fun with the maids, Salgant?" Tuor asked, before accepting an offered tankard from a passing server. He inhaled the smell of good beer, refreshing no matter what time of day, and took a swallow before sitting down at a nearby table. Salgant himself sat up with a faint groan.

"You know that I love a merry company with some good drink and music, my Lord Tuor," Salgant responded with a grunt as he slowly hauled himself back to his feet, his partner, still giggling, helping him up before she left to continue her duties. "I need to lay off the rich food, though, and possibly some of the wine as well. I haven't felt this weak in a long time." He pushed his hair out of the face to see better as he sat down, still somewhat winded.

Salgant was not exactly the most handsome of Lords around—compared to the much younger Maeglin—but he was easy to get along with and Tuor was proud to count him among friends.

"As long as you do not hit your head too hard I think the healers and my daring princess would be all right with your excesses," Tuor observed, setting his tankard down.

"I am trying to be careful—oh, there's Rog!"

The tall Lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath entered the pub, giving an order to a maid for some beer, then made straight for their table. "Good eve, gentlemen," he said, nodding to each as he took his place among them. "To whom do I owe the honor of this invitation?"

"That would be mine, my Lord," Tuor began, looking furtively about them. "I've asked you here for a bit of discussion, and Salgant's pub seemed to be the best place."

Rog steepled his fingers and looked over them at the young Man, who with his thirty-seven years of age would have been still a child if he had been a Elf. "I presume I'm not the only one you've invited?"

"Indeed, you are not. Look, here come two others."

In came Lords Duilin and Galdor, of the Houses of the Swallow and Tree respectively. Both were Exiles from Valinor and had braved the Grinding Ice together; and neither one was pleased at Gondolin's relative isolation in the last few years, for varied reasons, but Tuor knew that their worry matched his enough that he felt they could be trusted. They shared his primary concern that Gondolin was a trap just waiting to be sprung by Morgoth. A trap which risked to kill everyone in the Hidden City if there was no way out to escape.

"Is someone else coming?" Galdor asked while sitting down. Duilin followed his lead.

"No, I fear that they may mention this meeting to the King in a moment of a carelessness and cause trouble for us," Tuor confessed, looking around just to ensure that no one listened. Thankfully, all the people in here were working for Salgant, so they would likely know to keep other away from their Lords' talk, and the current patrons were of Rog's House, all trusted.

"What of Maeglin?" Salgant asked, all seriousness now. "The young lad is a fine fellow and has been more… open, I should say, as of late than before. Can't say I know why."

"We can trust the Lord Maeglin. He proposed this meeting to me, in fact, but because of certain other obligations he is unable to attend. Something about a head cook threatening to poison him so he could rest, I'd imagine. The former people of Nan Elmoth worries for their young Lord."

"The King fears his nephew will vanish again, more like. I've seen his men standing on watch around the Mole Prince's house since he was released from the healers' care."

"Is this so?" Tuor's face wrinkled in consternation. "I could've sworn he was always careful of his surroundings. I need not remind you all of why."

They murmured agreement. Rog spoke for them all. "Perhaps he is so singlemindedly focused on his work he ignores all other distractions."

"That may be so. In either event, there is no one outside of this pub who knows of this meeting."

"And what is this meeting about, my lord Tuor?" Galdor asked.

"I, Rog, and Maeglin believe that Gondolin is a trap. The Dark Lord draws near, and the King has refused our counsel to build up our forces. So… we have come to you."

"It's not like we have lack of men-at-arms," Salgant pointed out.

Tuor conceded his point, but added. "It is not about the fighting, it is about preparing to evacuate."

Silence. Galdor, Duilin, and Salgant looked at Tuor with amazement, while Rog kept a neutral expression. At last Salgant sputtered: "But… but where will we go? The moment the Dark Lord finds us we will be cut off, and as you said this whole valley will be a trap!"

"Which is why I propose building an escape route, secretly. Maeglin and I discussed this the night before and he has offered his House's service in its creation. An already existing mine, preferably."

"Have you spoken to Glorfindel and Ecthelion?" Galdor asked. "Their advice will be valuable for this discussion."

Tuor shook his head. "No, I am afraid not. They will be a hindrance more than a help."

Galdor nodded, slowly realizing why.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion were known to side with Turgon in matters of security at the councils, and had been his most ardent supporters against Rog and Tuor, and more recently, Maeglin. The two Lords meant well, they all knew it, but a meeting like this would not be seen kindly by the pair; and as the King had all but forbidden discussion of such a disloyal venture, this meeting could be construed as High Treason. The last any of them wanted was division in the last strong Elven Kingdom of Beleriand. It would only make it easier for the city to be caught in the dark claws of Morgoth and Sauron.

Tuor cleared his throat. "Continuing. Maeglin and his House have offered to remake one of the older, played out mines into an underground road but we'll need to determine where it can open out, and how far."

Nodding, Rog pulled out several maps of Gondolin which Maeglin had sent to him by errand boy and spread them about the table, pointing out the suggested mine that bored deep into the mountains in search of a nonexistent vein of iron ore. The tunnel network was on the western side to the city, and very close too—in fact, it linked with an older mine that opened out on the Tumladen itself.

"I propose that it lets out  _here_ ," he pointed to a small valley outside the Echoriad, not too far from the Pass of Sirion where Turgon had led a host to fight in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad nearly forty years prior. "It is well-hidden. So far none of our scouts have detected Orcs or any servant of his in that area; they are to the north and north-east."

"And where shall we lead the people once we emerge?" Galdor inquired.

"To Nan-tathren. Tuor told me about that place," Rog offered. "It is a peaceful realm, untroubled by the cares of the world. We may encounter some werewolves but they are likely wild." Tuor nodded in agreement. Those memories were not his most pleasant ones, for he had been alone during his days as an outlaw before guided by Ulmo to deliver the warning message to Turgon and would gladly avoid that kind of life again, especially now as a married man with a child.

"But the Onodrim reside there," Galdor protested, in a nervous voice, emptying his cup of wine before speaking again. "They have grown strange since the Great Journey."

"As long as we do not trouble them they have no cause to hurt us." Salgant placed his tankard down, thinking for a moment. "They hold no love for the Dark Lord or his creatures. If anything they remember the Valar more than we do. Surely they won't deny a band of refugees, won't they?"

"They are very insular and don't like outsiders."

"Bah, they prefer singing and drinking more than closed ranks. I doubt we'll see them. If they are nearby they will most likely be shielding our rear from any pursuing enemy."

"Nonetheless, Nan-tathren is the place we must go." Rog's eyes seemed to flare. "The Vala Ulmo is said to have a presence there in Sirion, and it is he who told him to come and save Gondolin. He will be our protector."

Ulmo had always had a care for the Exiled Noldor and stranded Sindar while the other Valarin Lords holed behind their protective mountain wall. The Vala of Water mayn't have shown himself personally in Gondolin in all the time the city had stood, but even sending a warning with Tuor was at least something.

"If we are planning this, we also need to ensure that there is enough food to last us." Galdor was one of the Lords in charge of food production for Gondolin. "We may be hardy beings but we must remember that more than half our number are Sindar, none of which are Calaquendi. And we must think of that many refugees may be young children and ladies who may be expecting during this journey. The apple and pear harvests are over for this year, but once summer has arrived and if there is no attack then, I could potentially store away a fourth—or even half, if I can manage—of the harvest into the dry stores. The summer meeting will be tough, yes, but the weather has been changing in the past three years, the winters are growing leaner and the summers shorter, so I'll have justification behind it."

"I can see if we can add meat to our provisions," Duilian added. "There is plenty of game outside Gondolin's walls and Tumladen, in addition to wild herbs and fruit. I pray that we do not leave in winter." At this all but Tuor shivered, remembering the Grinding Ice. It was not without good reason that winter was among the most disliked seasons among the Gondolindrim. Well, Tuor recalled how much harder it was to survive in winter, so he could somewhat imagine their fear of having to make a long journey in the winter cold and snow.

"Seldom do plans go well," Galdor cautioned. "This is the Dark Lord we are talking about."

"What of fishing? I know the King has forbidden excessive fishing in the streams." Salgant thought on this, then said, "Perhaps we can find some additional waters south and to the west, maybe in Berthil. It was spared in Doriath's fall, from what we managed to learn from the eagles."

"I shall get my people on it," Rog said. "We'll plot a course down Sirion to Nan-tathren and to the Mouths. We can establish a refuge camp there. Perhaps we may even find survivors from Doriath and build a stronger group of refugees together."

"This is most excellent. Anything else?" When no one answered Tuor said, "I propose we hold the next meeting at my home in the next week, this sound fair?"

"Certainly, your highness," Salgant said. "I hope you have wine."

"Never fear, good Salgant. I do believe even Maeglin might be there, if I can wrangle him away from his work."

"But first," Rog pointed out. "A pledge. We're all in this together, are we not?"

"Aha… yes…" Tuor stood. "Are you with us, my Lords?" he asked, a glint in his eye which told of the wisdom of a survivor. "Will you join myself in defying the edicts of the King for the sake of Gondolin?"

"The hammer stands with you," Rog said. Tuor nodded; this had already been decided.

"You'll have my harp." Salgant rose without any difficulty.

"The swallow shall fly with you, Winglord."

"The tree's strength shall be your own."

"Then it is decided." Tuor extended his right arm, its muscles showing that he had been training harder for the coming attack from Angband. "The Union of the Six has been established. May we succeed or perish, by the grace of Eru Ilúvatar our lord."

" _Násië_."

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

After two hours of lessons for the day, in which Rûsa had struggled with the complexities of Tengwar grammar but understood almost immediately mathematics, the logic behind the numbers surprisingly easy to grasp, Idril had declared it was time for a short rest.

Rûsa laid down the quill with gratitude. She hadn't realized schooling would be this much work, as she wasn't used to thinking a lot, and her hands hurt moreover, especially her left hand, which added a further complication as Tengwar was written left-to-right and so she had to be extra careful lest she made a mess from a thoughtless movement. Thankfully her back didn't protest from the sitting. She stood to stretch.

Eärendil meanwhile rose and walked about the room, swinging his arms in relief. The presence of his mother had done more than tutors or studying alone could have, reinvigorating him fully. He returned after some stretches, fishing through a few other books for the next lesson.

Idril had other plans.

"The next lesson will be about the courtly graces. Please clear the the table away."

Eärendil groaned loudly. "Do we have to?" he whined.

"What are courtly graces?" Rûsa asked, interested. This was not a concept she was familiar with.

"The courtly graces refer to how royalty and those of high station are expected to behave. Proper manners, careful words, politeness no matter your station—something my dear son needs to be reminded of," she added.

"Please, mother, no, I don't  _want_ —"

"But this is not only for your benefit, it is for Rûsa's. Now, let us begin with the basics once you've cleared away the table. Rûsa," she continued, "the way my son had greeted you earlier was an example of the courtly graces."

"But isn't that just… politeness?"

"Yes and no. When two Lords of equal rank meet one another they acknowledge their mutual equality. When a Lord meets a lower person, such as a servant, the Lord is expected to treat them well, not with condescension or dismissal, for they are in his care and with kindness and an interest into their wellbeing. It is a mark of noble blood to be gracious to all."

Idril turned to Eärendil, who had finished shoving the table. "Would you care to demonstrate to Lady Rûsa other greetings with me?"

Idril stood in the middle of the room, and Eärendil started to show some of the differences of greeting people. Rûsa tried her best to watch but couldn't distinguish between the intricate movements—perhaps it was how he addressed his mother, as she pretended to be another person? Or was it how she reacted to his gestures? They were blurry, especially in the semi-lit room as the sun curved away, the colors of their hair and clothing melting into each other.

Idril seemed to notice that something was off. "Can you see us?" she asked, to which Rûsa first squinted her eyes in a attempt to see better, before finally shaking on her head.

"N—No… everything is…. Everything… I do not know how t—to explain…!"

For a moment, her old fear of punishment surfaced, and as Idril took a step towards her Rûsa backed into the wall to get some distance between them, holding her hands over her head in reaction, shrinking into a small ball.

"Rûsa, I am not going to hit you for being unable to see properly. It is not your fault." Idril spoke gently, keeping Eärendil at a distance with an open hand. She knelt before Rûsa. "Tell me, how far can you see?"

She waved her hand before Rûsa. Roughly half a meter away from her face did the redhead first react to the movement. It told Idril how close something needed to be to her in order for her to actually see it.

"Th—This...distance…" Rûsa confessed in a small voice, not willing to release her arms from around her head.

" _I think we need to do something about her eyesight before we proceed to anything more serious or she will be hindered…_ " Idril thought, now realizing why Rûsa had that habit of keeping things close to her face if she was looking at something. But given that Rûsa refused to let someone examine her eyes long ago, barely even accepting the drops to prevent them from getting dry, this was going to be a serious problem.

"Mom, is something wrong with her eyes?"

Eärendil's confused question made Idril turn to him. "Rûsa has lived in a place which have damaged her eyesight as she grew up, sweetie. The other healers and I am trying to find a way to help her."

"Oh," was all Eärendil could think to say, realizing why Rûsa moved her hands around her in the manner she had been doing all day.

"Come now, Rûsa. Whether you want to or not, as your keeper and helper, I will have the healers examine you to determine the extent of your… blindness…"

"B—But I'm not blind."

"Yes you are." Idril stood. "You should be able to see things from much greater distances than a few centimeters. Now I'll have no complaints from you about it—we're seeing the healers this moment."

For a moment Rûsa tensed at the tone. Rarely did Idril have to raise her voice, her soft commanding presence all that she needed. It was all the more disconcerting. Then her shoulders fell and she acquiesced.

"Yes… yes ma'am."

"Good. Eärendil, why don't you come with me? We can try again later."

Eärendil's spirits rose at the thought of accompanying his mother. Finally he would be spending some time with her. "Yes, mother!" he answered, turning to go collect his books.

She smiled as he bustled off, then turned to regard Rûsa. The girl looked at her with such patheticness that she very nearly gave her a hug. But the time for that was not now—Rûsa had to learn when kindness gave way.

Still she had pity for her and said, "Do not worry. As long as you sit still, the examination will be over in a few minutes."

"Okay."

It was almost a whisper.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

_There came a time when everyone broke, sooner or later. She had seen hardened Noldorin soldiers who'd weathered hundreds of conflicts collapse in a matter of weeks upon imprisonment in the Hells of Iron._

_Maeglin was nearing that final breakdown, where he would give in to despair and say anything just to save his sanity. The relentless torture combined with the harsh conditions and lack of food did that to everyone. Even she as a slave had it better than a prisoner did._

" _Ar—Are you awake?" she whispered. She was leaning over Maeglin's prone body, where he had collapsed after yet another session with the Dark Master. Despite his weakness he opened his eyes, which had begun staying closed permanently unless it was her voice. When their eyes met Rûsa held a small piece of bread, straight from her own rations. "I—I managed to find so—some extra food. It—It's not much, I—I am afraid." It was a white-lie, but there was no other way to get past that damned gallantry of his._

" _Thank you…"_

_Maeglin took the piece and started to rise, grunting. Rûsa helped him up, mindful of his fresh wounds. As he slowly ate she sat beside him, a clay cup filled with water in hand._

" _Why are you doing this?"_

_She jumped, not expecting it. Maeglin was looking at her with curiosity through hollowed eyes. Rûsa flushed and hid her face. "W—What do you m—mean?" she said._

" _I want to be free of this hell. Why do you not let me die?"_

" _S—Sauron will punish me. This m—may be a last chance to a—avoid a long, painful death f—for me. I can—cannot allow another d—death happen under my c—care for someone. H—He was so a—angry last time it h—happened..."_

_She shivered at the memory of Morgoth's words to her, about breeding something useful out of her and then leaving her to die like her mother had done, far away on the cliffs of Thangorodrim._

" _Rûsa."_

_She felt a hand take her chin and pull her to look at him, trembling as bodily contact was not something she was used to. Maeglin's expression was tired, but the fire of his_ fëa  _shone through his flesh._

" _I don't want to break. I don't want to doom my city, my people, because of my actions. For the sake of the few free_ fëar  _remaining in Middle-earth I would gladly accept death."_

" _Y—You have no—no choice. S—Sauron is capable of—"_

" _But I do have a choice. I chose to disobey Turgon, my father. I brought this upon myself. And I have chosen to defy the Dark Lords for as long as I have. But I need your help. Please, help me."_

_She knew of various ways to end a life. Poison, strangulation, a quick cut to the throat, a stab in the neck… and yet she did not want to. No, she could not. She feared to die in childbirth. That fear was too great to lose against her honest desire to help him, and her hands trembled hard._

" _I am sorry," she whispered sincerely, unable to meet his eyes._

_Maeglin closed his eyes in defeat at those words. "Then… leave me…" He started to lay back down. "Go away."_

_She caught him as he slipped and fell, nearly hitting his back, but he gasped out: "Don't help me! Go!"_

_A shove reinforced this. Rûsa fell against the wall from the sudden thrust. The hit made her cry out aloud in pain, trembling violently from the impact, and she fell. Her healing items flew out her bag as she landed on the stone floor, the clay cup shattering, and her hood slipped off, exposing her face._

_Maeglin's eyes widened. She was no more than the size of a mere child—a young one, barely grown, not even her full adult height. Several things about Rûsa now made sense to him._

_Gritting her teeth to avoid hissing like an Orc she started gathering her items. Not once did she move toward him. "When S—Sauron orders one of—of us to care for a prisoner we can—cannot disobey. And my orders ar—are to keep you a—alive," she muttered, not looking at him. She hoped her tone, mixed pain and pleading, would be enough to sway him._

_There was no answer._

_She then pushed over to him her waterskin, forgotten on the floor, before standing up again. She was breathing heavily, legs wobbly. She gave him one final glance before donning her hood again. Taking her lantern Rûsa knocked on the steel door to signal the guard. It opened and she disappeared, light spilling in from the corridor, then darkness engulfed the cell._

_The door locked itself, a crunch of oiled metal sliding home. Indistinct murmurs could be heard from the other side—distressingly, Rûsa's was prominent—before they faded._

_Maeglin lay back on his bed, eyes becoming watery, conscious of the fact he may have alienated the only friend he had in Angband. She was only trying to help, constrained by her orders, and this was how he repaid her efforts?_

_But what would be the cost? Dooming one person for the sake of an entire city? What could he do?_

_For the first time Maeglin prayed. Not to the Valar._

" _Eru Ilúvatar, help me!"_

* * *

Míriel paused in her weaving and considered her tapestry. The memory which floated before her pulsated, reminding her she had more work to do, but she ignored it. Scenes from Angband were always taxing to her  _fëa_ , and after finishing a typical scene, such as this, she would usually rest from it and work on another. The scenes focusing on Beren and Lúthien had been an unanticipated pleasure to work on and provided much needed relief for her.

This was different. No doubt that as the memories flowed in the story would become more clearer to her eyes, but there was something about this particular one that interested her. Usually things coming from Angband were hidden to Mandos unless a spirit had died and came to the welcome abode of the dead—but Maeglin's imprisonment was a rare glimpse into that world. Her heart ached for the youth, as it reminded her of the long suffering her only granddaughter, Maitimo, had been subject to. Out of the many descendants of her husband, Miriel thought that Maeglin was the closest to know what once had happened to her before Findekáno had saved her.

Maeglin's despairing plea to the All-Father would have likely reached the ears of Manwë already, as did many suchlike prayers coming from Beleriand. Yet the deity seldom moved in the ways of the world, content, as the Eldar were taught, to watch the unfolding of the Great Music. What did it mean? Why did He not act?

" _Is this troubling you, my lady?_ "

The voice belonged to Námo, the master of these Halls. The attendant memory stirred at his approach. Míriel looked up.

"Yes, my Lord?" she asked. Perhaps sensing her sadness over the scene she was weaving, Námo made the half-finished tapestry float up in the air and free itself from the loom, its memory with it following.

" _If this feels too close to what happened to your eldest grandchild, please do not attempt more until you feel confident that you can finish it._ " Námo knew that Míriel was sensitive to anything that reminded of the Oath her son and his children had sworn, and how the Doom affected innocent people, not just the Noldor.

"I… I am saddened by that image. I can sense the guilt and fear… even if I know that it has already happened long ago," she confessed with a heavy sigh. "Sometimes I wonder why the All-Father allows these terrible things to happen in His creation."

" _Perhaps it is because he has given the Valar lordship over Arda,_ " Námo offered. " _Long have we fought Morgoth. He destroyed all we built and has ever and anon meddled in the workings of the world to corrupt its very heart. Now we are constrained, for the Music is becoming more defined as time presses on. We cannot act._ "

"Can He not move to alleviate the suffering of those poor  _fëar_ in thrall to Morgoth?"

Námo shook his head, sadness evident. " _The composer does not interfere with the workings of his symphony as it plays, lest he damages it irrevocably. The Oath of Fëanor is binding, and even the All-Father may not move to gainsay it. All that has happened, through circumstance or misfortune, is because of that one note, discordant from the beginning. But things change, in time, as the lessons of history teach us._ "

"I understand," Míriel answered. "At least in death all  _fëar_ are released to come dwell in peace. That is one solace I am content with."

" _And I bring to you another, Lady Serindë_." Námo gave into her hand a small mirror, in which danced a newly arrived memory. " _Perhaps this may be more of a joy to weave._ "

Curious, Míriel looked closer. The moving image of Maeglin and Rûsa studying together within the library sparkled within the enchanted glass. The contrast between them was sharp—Maeglin was strong and healthy and Rûsa hardly resembled her emaciated self in the other memory. She could even see a shy smile on the girl's face as she discovered the wonders of the book, despite not being able to read.

"Yes, I agree. This one will be a joy to work with."

Námo handed her the mirror. " _It is a happier one indeed. I will take this one to Vairë for safekeeping._ "

"Thank you, Lord Námo. I enjoy our conversation." She smiled. "And some say you are a dour fellow. I would have never thought you a fount of wisdom otherwise."

" _I am used to it. Better dour than mad with power which can harm innocents._ "

He inclined his head to her, then turned away.

Míriel took a deep breath to clear her mind—"Fëanáro,  _no_ , I would prefer not to have the tapestry set aflame again, thank you very much." She glared reproachfully at the wandering figure of fire, who backed away with an inarticulate sound.

Ever since his death, Fëanáro had kept the form of a living flame like some of the Maiar did, ashamed to assume an elven form. He continually hid himself from the other residents of the Halls but found solace near where his mother worked.

Sometimes he would even help her, but most times he brooded, darkening or glowing depending on his mood—often bursting into flame at times. Námo had forbade him to go near the portion of the Halls where the completed tapestries hung, citing that Vairë would flay the spirit mightily until he fled if he so much as singed one of her works.

Míriel glared at him until he had retreated a fair distance away, then considered the memory she held. Reaching into the mirror, its glassy surface dissolving like mist, she pulled out the glowing memory sphere until it floated before her. Unlike those memories of Angband, which were tinted with red, this glimmered with golden light. She smiled and pulled out a fresh bundle of material, preparing to weave the memory into permanence.

" _Something changed there in Angband, a single small act which grows and affects the future…_ " Námo thought as he was looking on another tapestry which showed Maeglin and Rûsa escaping from Angband. Well, personally he was somewhat pleased over that change. Even from here in the Halls he had sensed a very sad fate for the boy originally. That little slave healer, unaware to what changes she had brought into his life just simply by being the one to care for him while in captivity, would prove to change more than just his life.

" _Things will be much more fruitful for the boy because of this…_ " Námo rarely smiled, prompting little jests from Tulkas for his dour disposition—but this time, he allowed himself the luxury as he left the chamber, heading for another part of his Halls.

Being one of the most spiritually-attuned of the Valar Námo had initially accepted his task of caring for them, at the onset of the Vision of Eä; had he been human or even the first Elves he would have been the equivalent of a shaman or priest. Despite this burden, which at oftentimes was peaceful work, it had become harder as the years lengthened, for those arriving from Middle-earth were fractious and ill-tempered. At least the Atani, when they came, were peaceable before they departed over Ekkaia.

Thankfully he had his brother Irmo and sister-in-law Estë for assistance, as well as the largest portion of Maiar that dwelt within Arda. At times even Nienna would come to soothe the restless  _fëar_ , easing his weariness.

And there was Vairë, who had been tasked with the recording of the histories of the Kingdom of Arda, and sometimes from beyond. She dwelt in the westernmost part of his Halls, always sitting on a balcony that overlooked Ekkaia, eternally weaving her loom. Their various Maiar assisted her, taking completed tapestries and hanging them about Mandos, and sometimes took over tasks whenever she needed a rest.

He hadn't realized he had wandered over there, almost instinctually, until Vairë's soft voice awoke him.

" _You seem to be in a rare good mood, my husband,_ " she was saying playfully. She had left her Maiarin handmaidens to finish the latest tapestry of note to join him.

Námo felt his smile widen at her words. " _Some things out in the world have cheered me lately. The Doom of the Hidden City, while inevitable, had been delayed by the smallest of acts and that gives me pleasure._ "

" _Is this because of that little girl?_ "

" _Yes._ "

Even a such small change was important, and it would change the lives of several people. In fact, Námo currently held a rarely-seen light in his eyes which tended to be the reveal of a vision.

" _It is small acts like hers which enlightens my work in these dark times. Simple kindness can become wonders. A tiny little step can become a whole new journey in life. And look at her, I once foresaw a miserable life for her, forever caught in Angband without knowing the outside world—yet through Sauron's ordering her to care for young Maeglin, that ended up becoming that step for both of them._ "

Vairë nodded in understanding. " _Eru's ways are just and merciful, though he works mysteriously at times, even for us,_ " she answered.

" _That is the way of our Father, my love._ " Námo kissed her forehead. " _Time to return to work._ "

He bowed to her. Vairë curtsied then went back to her chambers. Námo vanished like a mist in the morning sun in turn, feeling the call of another group of  _fëar_  arriving at his gates. From what he could sense these were some ladies from the race of Men who all had died peacefully by old age and joined together on the path to Mandos, even if they had not known one another in life.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N1 (from Rogercat): I tried to base Rusa's bad eyesight on how I sees on my left eye without my glasses. In fact I can barely see the written text on the computer without the glasses and with my right eye closed. While it is not the exact problem as she is having, being that nearsighted, unable to see any text on a distance of 50 cm, is a pain.
> 
> OC_QI and I also like the idea of Námo being a bit like Hades from Greek Mythology in personality, aka a Ruler of the Dead who is strict but fair.
> 
> A/N2 (from OAC - QI): Násië means "Amen" in Quenya.


	7. The Way Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rûsa begins to feel restricted and Maeglin is about to encounter a new challenge... sort've.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors' note: Rogercat and I wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_The Way Found_ **

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

_**Not all those who wander are lost** _   
_—J.R.R. Tolkien_

Rûsa sat on a bench in a waiting room, extremely confused and more than a little scared.

Despite initially acquiescing, when they had reached the door she suddenly had another change of heart; and Idril had to firmly carry her in the rest of the way in spite of kicks and furious crying in the harsh, guttural language of Angband. Rûsa even managed to knee her a few times in the stomach, but Idril was stronger than she looked, thanks to having secret battle training with her husband behind her father's back; and she was not unfamiliar in dealing with misbehaving children. Eärendil could do that at times too, often when Tuor ended up carrying him over his shoulder just to get him home in time for dinner and bedtime. Carrying Rûsa in a such manner was more tricky as Rûsa was a bit taller than Eärendil and did her best to get free, but she managed it.

Rûsa was then plopped here and told to not leave the building or, and here Idril issued one of her rare threats, " _things will not pleasant for you_." This kept her right where she sat.

Why must she go through this? It was already enough of a struggle with those hard-to-use drops the healers had given her (to keep her eyes from drying, they'd said), why wouldn't Idril just let her be? Rûsa was starting to get tired of being shown how to do things. She had survived Angband long enough to know what to do.

"I think you are going to far," she huffed in protest, voice pitched low. Unfortunately Idril heard.

"If you cannot see," she said serenely from by the door, "then you will continue to have problems, not just in schoolwork."

Rûsa huffed again and folded her arms in cold yet furious silence. She couldn't deny that it was the truth, despite her resistance. Yet why couldn't Idril consult with  _her_ first instead of making all of the decisions? Even Maeglin had respected her better than this, once he had realized that she was the one to care for his injuries there in the prison cell!

Back in Angband she never had to give thought to anything like her eyesight or her limited reading unless something prevented her from moving on, then she either worked around it or through it until the problem was resolved. Here they had an almost fanatical urge to constantly change everything if even the slightest bit had gone wrong. What was so difficult about letting things stay the same?

"Princess, you may come in now!"

The specialist healer had finished whatever he had been working on. Idril moved to carry Rûsa again, but the little She-elf stood herself and walked straight to the open door after throwing a warning glare over her shoulder despite only narrowly guessing where Idril was standing. She was not going to let her boss her around anymore.

Nonetheless despite this she felt trepidation at having to meet this specialist. Sauron himself had dealt with her health, and each of his visits had been most unpleasant. For some reason the Dark Lords favored her highly, unlike the rest, and endeavoured to keep her whole and healthy. Or at least as healthy she would be without having enough strength to escape. She still had that one long ago memory of being ruled out for breeding; she could remember Sauron's momentary look of displeasure. Why, she did not know, but had long guessed that he maybe had hoped to replace her birth mother with herself. Healthy breeding slaves were, in general, taken from those Elves born outside Angband, as there were not much hope for those born within. They tended to be of poorer health and did not last long, with three births as the maximum before they died. They often miscarried despite the higher rations given to them.

"I admit that I was a bit surprised at seeing you come, Princess Idril," Cethrion was saying. "May I ask why?"

Idril, who had followed after Rûsa, sighed before answering:

"Rûsa here has a problem with her eyesight. We do not know her actual age, but she grew up in a place where her eyes were not used to getting much light. I saw it more fully today while having lessons with my son. She couldn't see beyond half a meter from her eyes."

The eye specialist raised his eyebrows in mild surprise at her words, sensing that this would be a tricky case, even without Rûsa looking at him. While she was far from his first patient—he had treated several survivors of the Grinding Ice whose eyesight had been damaged there—he almost never treated someone who was so close as to be functionally blind.

Pushing up his own glasses, as they had slipped further down on his nose, he said, "Well, this is going to be a little tricky but it is nothing I cannot handle. Miss Rûsa, would you take a seat please?" He gestured to a chair in the center of the room.

Taking a deep breath, she realized that the faster she obeyed, the sooner she would be out from his place. She took a seat, barely able to contain her trembling limbs. At any moment the illusion could fall away and living chains would bind her to the spot. She suddenly longed to be alone, in her own room back at the healing wing.

The specialist, who was named Cethrion, went over to the wall opposite Rûsa and took out a rod. Before she could cringe he pulled on some string and a curtain shot up, revealing a chart with Quenya and Sindarin letters in various sizes. Then he went over behind her and fiddled with something else, and a light was shining on the chart—the letters started to gleam. All prepared, he returned to the chart and indicated the largest letter on the board. Rûsa mentally prepared herself and did her best to follow his instructions.

Finally, after what felt like hours, it seemed like Cethrion was finished in his examination of her eyes. Rûsa moved her head back and rubbed at her eyelids in an attempt to not have them feel so dry, grateful that it was over.

Cethrion meanwhile spoke to Idril. "I will go straight to the point, this is one of the most serious cases of extreme nearsightedness I have ever seen, Princess. And I guess that you can not tell where miss Rûsa lived before?"

She shook her head, since that would break the professional secrecy every Healer had to take for people in their care. Some things simply was not meant to become known, after all.

"I can only say that Lord Rog found her early this spring, a few weeks after my cousin was brought back after being missing." There was no way Idril would reveal that Maeglin and Rûsa actually had returned together. There would be awkward questions asked otherwise, for all that Cethrion was a good fellow.

"I understand, my lady."

Since Cethrion had a habit of writing down information about those who visited him with various eye problems, he made a point of marking Rûsa's newly created profile with only a question mark at the point named  _Past issues with eyes_  and a small mention of which date Rog had brought her to Gondolin and her long stay at the Healing wings at the point named  _Background before first visit_. He even allowed Idril to take a quick look, and she nodded in agreement that it was all right.

Rûsa meanwhile waited inside the examination room. She just wanted to head back to the Healing wings and rest in her own chamber. It had been a long day for her today and not all of it had gone as she had hoped. Sure it was nice to actually learn in the school lessons with Eärendil and feeling like she actually was doing something.

"But I will not let Idril control what I am to do anymore… no way!" she resolved, glaring at the door.

Rûsa was unaware of it, but she had come a long way in standing up for herself since her first arrival in Gondolin over half a year ago. Even with her unknown parentage, her manner had slowly started to resemble that of the Noldor—not so strange given her caretakers—but she more or less behaved as a Sindar, less formal and more wary.

Eventually Idril returned to collect her. Rûsa grumbled and stood to follow her, glad that it was over. It would be much preferable to not do something like this again; slaves in Angband had learnt quickly to never allow anything close to their eyes or risking that they would end up blinded. And Rûsa feared to end up blind one day, for real. Certainly the tiny instruments of glass that eye-Healer had put close to her face made her feel ill. She had never felt dizzy like that before, her eyes struggling to adjust as he carefully had tried to figure how badly she actually saw things.

Clearly he had meant no harm but the procedure was unfamiliar to Rûsa. If her eyes was that bad surely it was not  _that_ important? She had managed the attempts to write and read fairly well, as far as she could tell, so why did Idril insist that she was to be hindered unless they fixed it?

"I shall try and have the glasses ready in about four days, you are welcome back to check on its progress any time." Cethrion said as the two ladies left.

Idril nodded in agreement to come back while Rûsa did not acknowledge him, though not out of coldness but because she was still dizzy. Idril took notice of this and decided to brew some tea to ease her suffering.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Reinvigorated by his rest the day before Maeglin had been able to avoid sleeping late this time, and as a result, managed to get all of his required paperwork in for the day just after noon.

Tuor had sent him a letter informing him of the meeting's success and that he would speak to him later that night on a future one. Maeglin had been surprised he'd went ahead and done it, even with the risk three other Lords would possess. He could say with pride that Salgant had been his first choice, for of all of the Gondolin Lords, the House of the Harp had been the most friendly toward him with his parents' demise. Rog had eventually won his trust too after a while, especially after an evening spent over a few glasses of wine, where both he and Rog had commiserated over the pain of orphanhood during the aftermath of the Unnumbered Tears, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He could sense there was more to it but had refrained from asking further. In fact Maeglin believed that for a moment, a glamor had loosen its hold on Rog's arm and he had seen old and faint scars very similar to those upon his own back. But whatever dark past Rog hid, it was not his business to ask.

Stepping out his home Maeglin fully intended to inspect the mines (and that little project he and Tuor had discussed), but when he went past a nearby square full of shouting children, all of various ages below twenty years, he couldn't resist taking a  _small_ detour. The little courtyard was ringed with tall oaken trees, mimicking the mystic glades of home, to make the children feel comfortable; and himself too, by extension. Even the adults liked the taller trees in their section of the city, for it reminded them of the elder days before the Dark Lord walked about the world, when the nights were free and glad. Being as it was in the center of Tumladen, Gondolin received its fair share of sunlight, and made the dark elves uncomfortable; the trees helped ease it to tolerable levels.

"Lord Maeglin, catch!"

He caught the ball by reflex, stirred from his thoughts by the laughter. Maeglin blinked: he held the ball at such an angle that had he not caught it his head would have rung from a collision.

"No tossing balls toward someone's face or you may hurt them, you know that rule," Maeglin reminded them before sending it back to the children. They nodded before returning to their frantic efforts to hit one another as hard as they could. It was an old game, held by tradition to have been played by the first shamanistic families settling in Nan Elmoth under Eöl, and this ensured that part of it lived on here.

Watching them reminded Maeglin of his own days as a youngling, playing catch with his mother and, rarely, his father. It had been a lonely existence as the only son of the chieftain but he had the occasional visitation from children like these. Many were here, working under Turgon's protection; the rest had sadly been slain in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. They had left no wife or even husband (as many were women) to survive them, for such was the tragedy of death among the elves. In Nan Elmoth it was frowned upon if people were in a hurry to marry, and were instead encouraged to at least wait past their one hundred fiftieth begetting-day to enjoy some years of adulthood first. Being very young parents was not always good for a married couple, as not everyone could deal with raising small children and enjoy marriage at the same time. In that way, Maeglin had followed that rule and he was now long past it; and no one would raise an eyebrow if he ever started to court someone now. But it had cost them dearly nonetheless.

His thoughts turned to Rûsa, of how out of place she obviously felt in Gondolin, disconnected and useless. In a way she reminded him of his earlier years here, of how he was seen with suspicion from the natives after his parents' deaths (whereas she was seen with pity); Maeglin, however, eventually won Gondolin's trust and Turgon's approval by relocating his people. Rûsa had no such recourse. She was an outsider, despite Idril's attempts to school her into the lady she had the potential for, forever at odds with this place. In fact she only seemed normal whenever he was around.  _Hmm…_  that gave him an idea.

"Is something wrong, Lord Maeglin?"

He blinked again with surprise and came out of his thoughts. The children had stopped their game and were gathered around him, concern on their faces. He must have let it seem like he was distant because of his chronic tiredness.

"Nothing is wrong with me right now, thank you for asking. But…. I do have a possible task for you. There is a young lady, she helped me return here after I left earlier this year. She's rather shy and withdrawn." This was not a lie: he had never seen children around Rûsa in Angband and her reaction at first meeting Eärendil in the chapel revealed that she had no idea how to behave around them. "I was thinking you can come visit her with me sometimes, to have her get to know more people. Her only outside contact is myself and the Lady Idril, so I would be grateful if you could help her become more settled here."

The children listened carefully to his words, understanding what he wanted of them. They knew some of the details were obscured, such as where she came from, but her plight resonated with them nonetheless. Being only one generation removed from the forest they still remembered all too well the dangers of being an outsider in an unfamiliar place: you either adapt or you die. Maeglin further clarified to them that this lady was not exactly in good health, and that the Lady Idril's son would possibly be too much of a burden on her with all his infamous energy.

Being intelligent lads and lasses they also understood this was someone very dear to his heart, or he would not have spoken to them about her in this way. This gladdened them, for he had looked rather down and gloomy ever since he returned, and their parents worried much for their young Lord, fearing to lose him to the grief caused by the loss of both parents so long ago. He had been close to them in different ways, but loved them all the same.

"So I thought that maybe you could show her some simple games, or playing in a group to help her relax," he finished, hope clear in his eyes.

"Yes, sir," a girl said, holding the ball they played with. "We will do our best."

"Thank you all."

"Aha, there you are, Prince Maeglin."

He turned at being addressed. Walking toward the courtyard was Lord Egalmoth, of the House of the Heavenly Arch. It surprised him to see the other Lord here, for due to some unfortunate history between them Egalmoth had avoided any social calls unless his wife had insisted.

Even more unusual was that he chose this place with the children gathered, for he was not fond of them for rather understandable reasons. Elven children may be more mature than human younglings but even they liked pretty jeweled ornaments. More than once a child from the House of the Mole had been caught in the middle of trying to grab those sewn onto his cloak, for example. It tended to be even worse if there was several children joining together against Egalmoth to get a small piece and he failed to escape their eager hands in time. Maeglin had actually seen them chase him up into a tree to avoid them once, despite how ridiculously it had looked with Egalmoth up in the branches and the Elflings jumping around the trunk.

"My Lord Egalmoth," he answered, surprise in his voice. "What brings you here?"

The Lord came to a stop, putting a distance between himself and the children. He looked like he was under some sort of internal pressure, from the way his mouth opened and closed repeatedly.

"Are you well, my Lord?" a child asked curiously.

"No, I mean, yes, I am well… Maeglin, would it bother you if we went a little ways from here?" he asked with a glare towards the children, who now seemed to have their eyes set on his cloak like those of a cat spotting a big fat rat.

"Certainly…"

Maeglin gestured to the kids to continue their games but not follow him. The Lord was clearly uneasy for some reason, and he didn't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. With some disappointed sighs the elflings returned to merrymaking—undoubtedly they'd try to listen in anyway. Not for spying, but to hear if there was something that could cause trouble for Maeglin in the future.

Drawing away to a more shadier, secluded location Maeglin and Egalmoth left the play area until there was no one but they anywhere on the street.

"Is there something you need help with?" Maeglin asked first, for it was a neutral thing to ask.

"Yes… and no." He fumbled with something in a chest-pocket and withdrew a sealed letter. "For you. I volunteered to deliver it, only to save my sanity from some serious nagging and to get out from the house for a little bit."

Maeglin took the letter with a suspicious look, and glanced at it. It was from Tinwen, he could smell it from the faint scent of rose perfume she had worn at their last meeting.

"And why does miss Tinwen write a letter for you to give me?"

Egalmoth gestured for him to open it.

Maeglin slit the envelope and took out its letter, where the rose perfume wafted about even stronger. He felt his eyes watering a bit. Mentally, he cursed how some of the current court fashion made absolutely  _no_  sense, if he was asked, thank you very much. Like this about adding perfume on letters, even Idril had expressed disapproval when she had heard about it. When his vision cleared he saw gold lettering written upon the parchment:

_To: Prince Maeglin, of the House of the Mole, son of the King  
From: Lady Meril Quildalótë, wife to Lord Egalmoth of the House of the Heavenly Arch_

Unfolding it he read the invitation:

_Prince Maeglin,_

_It would be a great delight if you could come for a small tea, tomorrow at three in the afternoon, at our home. My daughter has told me much about you and I desire to know you more. Perhaps we may find we have much in common._

_Yours in sincerity,_

_Lady Meril Quildalótë_

Maeglin made a face mentally as he read. He had nothing against tea, but having to spend time around the noble ladies of Gondolin, especially those with unwed daughters, was  _not_  his cup of tea, literally said. It was only a fancier way to try and hook him up with said unwed maidens under the disguise of social meetings.

"I cannot say straight away that I will be able to come, since I originally had other plans for tomorrow." Maeglin said to Egalmoth as he folded the letter back into its closed hold.  _Like having Rûsa come to visit the House of the Mole and spending time with the children._

"You better come, or Meril and Tinwen will nag at me to go and literally drag you to our home. When joining forces in agreement no man can resist them."

That was not exactly encouraging Maeglin either, to be honest.

"I thank you for giving me the invitation in person, then, Lord Egalmoth."

Great, his good mood was vanishing like a cloud for the wind. More complications, more hindrances. First Turgon, now this. And here he thought his only problems would be those connected with work. Bowing to Egalmoth, Maeglin left to return to his work, hoping that he could try something small in the forge to try and regain his better mood. Like a set of simple hairpins, Rûsa would most likely grow her hair longer the more she recovered from her old lifestyle and would need to keep it out of her face.

Egalmoth meanwhile sighed in relief and wiped the sweat off his brow. The hard part was over with. He returned Maeglin's bow and set off quickly, looking over his shoulder at several pairs of eyes from the dark trees.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

_Maeglin was close to passing out from the pain once more, barely noticing his chains loosening or his fall to the floor. A sound, like a warning hiss from being touched, followed by footsteps before he was carefully laid on his side for a better look._

" _I a—am going t—to run out o—of thread to s—sew his wounds if y—you keep doing this, M—Master…"_

_A pinprick stung his arm as a needle lanced through, forcing him back to consciousness, as Rûsa tried to close as many of the wounds as possible before infection set in. Not an easy task with all of the blood and bad light._

" _Focus on doing your duty as a healer instead of other things, Rûsa." Sauron dismissed her worries, as always, it was not like he even would care to listen. He watched closely in the background, eyes like fire in the night._

_With a quiet sigh, Rûsa did her best in sewing up the worst of the newly inflicted injuries before attempting to heave Maeglin onto his feet. She placed his arm over her body and pushed up. Naturally, her back cracked in protest against the extra weight but she had to do it or Sauron would be displeased. Even after starving for a while, Maeglin still was bigger and a big deal heavier than herself. Finally she got him onto his feet and started leading him to the door._

" _Rûsa."_

_She froze at being addressed, swaying slightly._

" _You know what you shall do."_

" _Y—Yes, master."_

_Even Maeglin could hear how broken her voice was, and he understood why she had refused to end his life when he had begged for it earlier. With a master like Sauron, she could not refuse to obey her orders. In fact he now felt ashamed for asking for something that was beyond her ability to grant. She had not spoken with him at all since that time, only done her duty and then quickly leaving, likely fearing that he would request help in killing himself again._

_He focused his efforts into trying to make it easier for her, forcing himself to walk despite the pain shooting across him. It was the least he could do._

_It took her a long time to help Maeglin back to his cell, and Rûsa would gladly have collapsed down on the floor beside him. But she had to keep treating his wounds. She laid him down on his bed, jostling his leg slightly. He hissed from the contact._

" _S—Sorry..."_

_One of his newest wounds was on his upper thigh, and she needed to remove his ragged pants to see better with the small lamp she had. Not that Maeglin had any energy to protest, it was better to just let her do what she had to._

_Only when she had finished washing and binding the wound did Rûsa suddenly realise something; a pattern in the injuries Maeglin had been given in the torture to force out the location of Gondolin from his lips. Since blisters on his hands had hinted to him being a smith, his hands and head had been spared from harm, and he needed reasonable unharmed feet in order to walk. The rest of his body, not so much. Except…_

_It was in true, honest horror that Rûsa realised what fate Sauron planned for Maeglin once he had reached his breaking point. She had heard mutters among her fellow slaves that there had been a lessening in breeding males lately, most of them dying from injuries caused in animalistic fights or spiritual exhaustion. Whatever it was in those horrible drugs fed to them, whatever foul chemicals laced the drinks that stripped an elf of reason and intellect to the point of behaving like mere animals around one another and the females, Rûsa did not want to know._

_But one thing was for sure: Maeglin was destined to join those fated to a miserable life of fathering children they would never see, slowly dying a wasting death before coming to the Judge. And she did not want that for him._

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

At the same time as Maeglin and Egalmoth had their talk, Turgon had summoned the Lords who were in change of the food production in Gondolin. Normally he would have spared this meeting to a few months later in spring, yet the King was not the only one in the Hidden City to worry about the weather over the last weeks. Something had changed in the air, anyone who had survived the Grinding Ice had developed an inner sense for any changes in the weather related to winter season.

"Thank you for coming, all of you," he said as the Lords entered. "I know it is a meeting on very short notice, and I apologize if it messed up any plans of the day for you, but I felt that it was needed."

Penrod and Galdor were already sitting together as Glorfindel took a seat closer to the King's side. He was the last one to come.

"We fully understand, my King, we have sensed the changes in the weather too… are you all right, Galdor?" Penrod asked in the middle of reading the weather report he had bought along.

"Pardon me," Galdor muttered as he bit back a small curse. He had been misfortunate enough to step in a muddy hole on the way, and landed rather painfully, twisting his left ankle. Galdor even suspected that it was beginning to swell up, possibly explaining why his shoe felt rather cramped at the moment. Penrod nodded and started to resume.

"Pengolodh, please look up from your texts for once!" Turgon snapped.

"Hm?" One of the other Lords looked up from a set of newly-written texts on the table, since he had found a couple of errors in a set of history books for the children in Gondolin and brought it along to "doodle" during the meeting.

"And people wonder why Penrod officially is the Lord of both the Pillar and the Snow Houses ever since he began to focus more on being a Loremaster…" Glorfindel muttered to Ecthelion, though not quietly enough, causing the annoyed Pengolodh to toss a quill at the Lord of the Golden Flower like he would do in a classroom with students.

"Being a Loremaster is a work of art, which a stiff-headed brat like you still fail to understand," he answered.

"Enough. Can we focus on what to do with the food reserves if we get hit with early winter?" Turgon said, trying to prevent them from bricking like Elflings around him. "And yes you are required for this meeting, Pengolodh. Continue," he added, nodding to the next Lord.

"There is no need to worry about the animals in the valley, there was a good number of calves and lambs born this year, so if we need to slaughter more than originally planned, it is fine. Same with the goats," Duilin, of the House of the Swallow, reported. As the Lord in charge of food production and storage it was his duty to oversee these things, including the breeding of the King's horses. "The horses are less so; fewer foals were born than normal, and some of the best breeding mares miscarried last winter for unknown reasons. Their number has still not fully recovered from what we've lost in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, even if it is nearly forty years past. I have no reports of the smaller animals being affected, yet."

"And there is no worry about the flora here in the valley. There have been no new strange plants or herbs showing up that could cause trouble, outside the troublesome garden weeds," Glorfindel added, still rubbing his head where the quill had hit him. Ecthelion confirmed that all sources of water were still clean and there was no reason to worry about using too much water for daily needs from the fountain and sewer systems in the city, but cautioned that ice could take hold.

"Now that that is cleared up, is there anything else—?"

Suddenly the door behind them burst open, several of them jumping with fright and Pengolodh cursed as a big inkblot formed over a word he had just written down. It was Eärendil, who should have been at his school lesson at this time of the day had not Idril needed to take Rûsa away to check on her eyesight.

"Prince Eärendil, that is a bad habit of yours to slam the doors open…" Glorfindel started to scold the young prince had not the Half-elven child suddenly said:

"Grandpa, is it true that you gave Maeglin some secret orders last winter that kept him away all this time?"

"Yes…" Turgon responded, before realizing what his grandson just had asked, "Wait, what?! Where did you hear that?"

Eärendil pointed to Glorfindel.

"I heard Glorfindel comment that on the way here."

It was only his quick movements that saved Glorfindel from being yelled at by the King, running out of the meeting room.

" _GLORFINDEL! WHAT KIND OF NONSENSE ARE YOU TELLING HIM?!_ "

"I am gonna ask mom if she knows anything about that," Eärendil commented in a careless manner despite the yelling of his furious grandfather as he started to chasing Glorfindel, who was cursing his ill-timed muttering about Turgon spoiling his only nephew and letting him do as he pleased without punishment.

"Wait, Eärendil! Gondolin does not need anymore silly rumours or gossip about your mother's cousin right now!" Ecthelion pleaded, trying to catch the prince as he escaped. Turgon meanwhile was much too bothered by the fact his too-long robes had caught his legs and threw him facedown on the floor in the midst of pursuing after Glorfindel to bother with his errant grandson.

Pengolodh sighed at the sight of the whole scene and rubbed his forehead with the air of someone having a migraine. The Princess Idril was going to be furious when she heard about this. On the other hand he could take some small pleasure in that it would be Glorfindel's head—and Turgon's, by extension—she'd be after and not his.

"Why do people never watch their mouths around curious ears?" he muttered to himself. Hopefully the young prince would keep quiet or there would indeed be new, unnecessary rumours about Maeglin's "leave of absence" last winter. The Powers help them all when Maeglin learned of it—he was likely as not to join Idril in her crusade against the rumormongers.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N1 (from Rogercat): Those who have read the LOTR books may recall Glorfindel as a powerful Elven Lord from Imladris in the Third Age, but we do not really know if he had the same personality in the First Age before his death and rebirth, so here we tried to possibly show him as a more stern, law-obeying warrior who thinks Maeglin gets away with some unacceptable behaviour or actions thanks to being Turgon's nephew.
> 
> A/N2 (from OAC_QI): Having been in surgery myself in 2015 to fix my horrible eyesight (my focal point, the spot where your eyes see the same thing, was just at my nose) I knew partly what Rûsa would have felt like when something came really close to her eyes. I was reluctant to use eye drops as my eyes stabilized, until I overcame my squeamishness. But it was worth seeing the colors and sharpness of the trees and the bricks and even lights at night.
> 
> To milie, Maedhros is indeed female in this version, due to it itself being a variant of Rogercat's Tales of the Warg Rider AU trilogy, and yes there are ramifications because of it.


	8. The Course Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rûsa is taken to her new home. Maeglin resolves an inner conflict.

~X~

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_The Course Set_ **

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

 _ **The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps**  
_ — _Proverbs 16:9_

The next day, Rûsa felt better, the dizziness having disappeared thanks to that tea Idril brewed her. There was the usual refusal to put drops in her eyes again, but otherwise the morning went well. After breakfast she went to a quiet corner where there was a small table laden with quills, inkwells, and some crayons. It was meant for children to use while waiting to be attended; the King valued the health of his people.

During the time here, she had slowly discovered a passion for drawing despite being unable to see clearly. Taking a crayon in hand she started sketching a drawing of some flowers on a nearby windowsill. She spent the next hour or so shaping it to perfection, paying careful attention to the lines and colors, alternating between inks and the colored graphite.

Some noise caught her attention but by this time she had grown used to Gondolin, and no longer jumped. She looked over, pausing over a petal. Two healers bustled through the waiting room, half-carrying/half-supporting a third between them. At first Rûsa thought the lady was injured, from her groans and mutters about wanting to knock out her husband right now, but a sunbeam passed over the trio and she saw the lady's distended belly—a clear sign that she was in fact close to delivering a child.

"That is…!"

She dropped the crayon to the floor, her hands suddenly shaking hard as unwelcome memories threatened to reappear, and she began to gasp for breath. A tall shadow fell over her and she looked up, her black eyes fearful due to first thinking that it was Sauron for a moment.

Thankfully it was Rog, picking up the dropped crayon and giving to her. A bandage around his hand revealed that he seemed to have injured himself sometime in the morning earlier. "Are you all right, Rûsa?" he asked in a soft voice.

Rûsa did her best to hide it, but she flinched noticeably at the sound of the laboring woman's groan of pain as the midwives brought her inside a special room for childbirth. She recognized it well. From the way her thin, scarred hands were holding on the armrests of the chair to her quaking frame, it was plain she was terrified.

Rog placed his unharmed hand over hers. "Don't be afraid," he reassured her. "That mother-to-be is in the best of hands, for they are excellent midwives." He carefully moved his injured fingers a twitch as the painkiller salve had not set in fully yet, a reminder to be more careful the next time he forged a sword.

"But—But… what if she… if something happens… to—to her… or the—the baby… would the—the King pu—punish them?" Rûsa had fallen into her old pattern of speaking that Angbandrim polyglot. Now she was trembling, her legs shivering in anticipation of flight. She held so tightly to the chair arms that her fingers had almost turned white from the pressure.

"Punish the midwives? For what, child?" asked a random healer in confusion as she passed by with several clean blankets in her arms. Rog, who had a better guess of what Rûsa tried to say, carefully shooed her away into the birthing chamber before the question made Rûsa even more frightened than she already was.

"Do you know anyone who passed away in childbirth and saw the midwives punished for it?" he whispered in a gentle voice, kneeling down again but at a more respectful distance so he would not tower over her, for he could tell from her behaviour that she was frightened.

Rûsa looked up, tears brimming in her eyes. " _My mother,_ " she said, before hiding her face in shame.

Two words, yet it was all he needed to know to understand why she was so afraid. Her behaviour was that of an orphan, who had lost her mother at birth. She must have seen countless women in labor in that terrible place, knowing the price if something went wrong. Rog swept his cloak off and wrapped it around her. It seemed to help, for Rûsa stopped trembling, relaxing slowly.

"There is no need to be afraid," he said again, soothingly. "The midwives will make their best to ensure that both mother and child are all right. As far as I know there have been no deaths since the city was built."

Granted, Rog did not mention the pregnant She-elves who had became widows after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and how many of them had given in to their grief despite their newborns needing their mothers. It was a common story to most of his current wards, a father killed in battle before birth, a mother lost in childbirth to wasting grief. A few of them had older siblings who could remember their parents yet these were rare, as overpopulation was a serious concern in Gondolin. Too many would reveal them to the outside world, and Turgon had instituted a maximum limit of three children in each family unless a married couple choose to not have offspring; and while this did not apply to newcomers, such as the Elmothdrim, they were expected to obey from henceforth upon settlement. Rûsa did not need to know the ins-and-outs of Gondolin legalities, nor the difficulties of her new home. Rog knew that her mental health was still fragile and the wrong step could undo everything Idril had worked for. The presence of the pregnant woman was one such thing to be avoided, if possible.

Rog opened his arms and she fell into them, openly crying as she finally released her long-hidden grief over the mother she had never met. In Angband, slaves had never talked about those who were gone, and far too many were like her to even bother caring. He held her firmly, a stolid reminder that she was not alone.  _One day soon, I'll tell her,_  he resolved.  _She deserves to know she is not the only one affected by Angband._

When Idril arrived she found Rog sitting on a bed near the waiting rooms, Rûsa sleeping with her head in his lap. "Is she tired from waiting?" she asked.

"I'm afraid not, it was more of a… bad reaction triggered by something," he answered, and told her about what had happened.

Idril nodded with some sadness. "A shame. She's like your wards at times, unsure of themselves in the world. I never knew she felt so strongly about her mother. All too well I remember my grief at losing my mother, Elenwë. Ever since I wed Tuor and had Eärendil, my worst nightmares are of them suffering her fate and myself paralyzed at the crack of ice."

Rog said nothing, his green eyes dark in sorrow that so many had died and many more had suffered from it. Eärendil would never know his maternal grandmother in this life, and Tuor's own mother—Rían from the House of Bëor—had died in grief after his own birth, after Huor her husband had died in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

To shift the mood to something more pleasant, lest Rûsa awoke and sensed the atmosphere, Rog changed subjects. "I have been thinking for a time about Rûsa, Idril. She's lived here in all her six months at Gondolin, healing and recovering. Given her current health and… what had happened here, wouldn't it be wiser to move her elsewhere? She is nearing that point where she can act autonomously on her own, if she were a normal person."

Idril looked somewhat hesitant. "The problem is that we have kept her hidden from most people outside the healers. It would be hard to arrange a home without needing to explain why she have not been seen before…"

Rog snorted. "Most of my orphaned wards are old enough to move out and start their first crafts with an employer," he answered. "Their old rooms are empty now. Rûsa could move into one of them with her belongings in a few days, once we have cleaned and aired one out. I'm sure she'll be grateful. Especially if I give one of the house maids the task of helping her with something she is unsure of, a kind of useful shadow that helps only if she wants help."

Idril nodded. "Yes, she has become more and more independent as of late, buckling against me. This will be good for the both of us."

There was more she could have said but Rûsa chose that moment to wake, the sound of voices conversing alerting her. She sat up, alarmed that she'd broken a rule by falling asleep. Rog hastened to reassure her. "There is no reason to feel ashamed, sometimes mental exhaustion forces us to rest."

Rûsa said nothing at first, slowly looking between them as she became fully awake. "What happened?" she asked.

"Idril and I were discussing your future. She agrees with me that you're well on your way to recovery." At Rûsa's shocked look Rog added, "and she believes it is time you were discharged from her care."

"But—But where will I stay? I don't know anyone here—"

"You'll be staying with me. Many of my wards have recently moved out and there are a few places open. You'll be among friends as they've all had some degree of trauma in their lives, and will readily understand where you've come from, if you choose to reveal it." Rog said to calm her down before any possible panic could take control.

"Will I still have to take classes?"

"Yes," Idril answered. "I would greatly be pleased if you continued your studies with Eärendil. You have become an inspiration to him and his father reports that he's progressing very well."

In fact, Idril thought that having a rival in the classroom was a good reason to why Eärendil suddenly had started to focus better. He clearly had  _not_ liked how fast Rûsa had gasped mathematics and even managed some rather difficult ones Idril had not given her, some numbers actually meant for older students in their twenties. It had hinted to a very sharp mind that was used to numbers in daily life, like the surprisingly even stitches on the clothes Rûsa came in. Despite her new clothes, she had still tried to mend her old ones in protests that they were little more than useless rags that had ended up burnt in the fire once she had been asleep. Idril still remembered that first temper tantrum Rûsa had thrown at her caretakers, at finding out that her clothes was no more. This had been one of the first signs of her independence.

"I… I will," Rûsa said. She had become secure in the hospital wing, slowly accepting the fact that it was a constant in her new life, and now this revelation had upended her completely. She liked Rog and felt safe around him, but she had felt much more comfortable here in this building, where Maeglin and Idril came and went, never imposing much on her. Then again, perhaps it was because she had spent her whole life in Angband before meeting Maeglin and never known the outside world, and this was a security in a way that he had upended.

"Then it is settled. I'll arrange for Eärendil to come over and take classes with my wards, Princess, he'll do his studies with my eye on him, and are there any other things we need to cover?"

"No, I think we have everything talked about. I will write a list of the medicines Rûsa still takes to ensure that she is healthy, and various nutritional meals that she may need to eat even after moving."

There were not many medicines, in contrast to the first weeks after coming to Gondolin, but Rûsa was still a little far from the normal weight of someone of her height and needed to grow stronger as well. Half a year spent under the best healers of Gondolin did not cover up for a lifetime of malnutrition and other signs of bad health, after all.

Rog nodded. "Excellent. I await your pleasure. Rûsa, as soon as Idril has compiled a list we'll—"

"Actually," the Princess said, "I have them right here." She held out a slip of paper written in the Sindarin script. "I expected you would want to move her given that she feels comfortable around you, so I came prepared."

"Thank you." Rog stood, Rûsa sliding off reluctantly, landing on the bed again in a attempt to not end up on the floor by mistake. "Let us be off."

"A—Already?!"

"The sooner you see where you will live, the faster you can get used to it," Rog explained, putting his cloak over her again.

In secret, as she often had done here in Gondolin as the years had passed, Idril wondered once again why Rog, being a such tender man and caretaker, remained a bachelor. She had heard him getting various marriage offers from the fathers of many eligible young ladies, all of whom had a crush on him, but he had gently refused them. The exact reason why, no one knew, but his friends who had survived the Grinding Ice had given her a possible explanation; Rog's heart had always and still belonged to a lady he had left behind. Her name and identity was tightly guarded by Rog himself, never mentioning anything that could reveal her. Whether it was because of personal shame or some other factor, she had not pressed him for details, understanding that some things were best left alone.

But even so, as she saw them to the door, Idril hoped that this little girl could help him find solace for his grief. There was something about her which sparked a curious response from him, even more so than all of the other unfortunates. Perhaps Rûsa reminded him of that lady of his in some way, whether it was by her mysterious behavior or some physical trait. Or perhaps it was something in her  _fëa_  that drew him. Only he knew what it was. Either way, she knew that Rûsa would change many lives in Gondolin, for better or worse. Idril sent a prayer to the Valar that it would be the former, not the latter. The Powers knew she needed a better life than before but even they could not do everything.

"Eru guide you," she whispered as they departed.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

As far as Maeglin cared, this was not a good day for him. It was not that he disliked the idea of having afternoon tea, far from it, this had been a much welcome break from work for people in Nan Elmoth for as long as he could remember. Even today it promised some rest from his own work. However, here in Gondolin, afternoon tea had become a social ritual, especially for those of the higher classes. Avoiding it was very… difficult, especially if it came with a special invitation like for him. It didn't help that he was "the most eligible bachelor" in Gondolin according to the current gossip, not to mention the mystery quantity he had acquired thanks to his absence.  _If only they knew_ , he thought rather uncharitably. It was best if they didn't know: he would not want to be an object of pity. There had been far too much of it after the death of his parents, more for Aredhel as the sister of the King than for Eöl, who had been viewed as an unknown stranger, a living form of the chaos in the world outside Gondolin.

So it was that he had come to this afternoon tea dressed in his finest, black with embroidery. The weather was unusually colder than normal, so in addition to his usual shirt and coat he wore a fashionable greatcoat—at his staff's insistence—along with a vest and a kind of fancy "neckerchief" called a cravat. Finally, he wore some fancier socks the maids called leggings he felt made him entirely overdressed and uncomfortably. Unfortunately, his housekeeper was a stern woman, as was accustomed among the Elmothdrim, and she told him in no uncertain terms that " _this is what a nobleman should wear when meeting a lady and her family at a formal gathering_." Nevermind that he didn't care about dressing up nice, never mind that it wasn't his job to impress the family because of how fashionable he was, all that mattered was he presented a good picture to all who beheld him.

He didn't have to wait long out in the cold. A maid opened the door when he knocked and ushered him into the parlor where Tinwen, dressed in a white and pale pink dress, played on the harpsichord. She had just finished a song that he vaguely knew was pretty popular at court when he entered.

"Welcome, Lord Maeglin. I am very happy that you could come," the Lady Meril spoke as he showed up. She had been sitting in a chair behind her daughter, near to the fireplace which was lit against the chill, and now rose to greet their visitor. She was dressed elegantly in a dark-blue dress as a contrast to her daughter, perhaps as a reminder that she was married and a mother.

Maeglin bowed and she extended her hand. Maeglin took it and kissed in greeting. She beamed when he looked up; he hadn't forgotten that social more, at least. He'd never really understood the point of kissing a lady's hand as greeting, but Aredhel had at least managed to teach him that before they had left Nan Elmoth despite how ridiculous he saw it as, or things may have gotten pretty awkward after coming to Gondolin.

"I thank you both ladies for the invitation," he spoke carefully, knowing that as a fellow Lord of Gondolin Elgalmoth was just one step below the royal family. Maeglin, as the nephew of the King, was technically his superior but never cared for it.

"You are much welcome, my prince. It is already rare enough for you to attend a afternoon tea invitation, so many of my fellow ladies have tried to get you to come to one of theirs," she answered. "I hope that this is a prelude to your return into the social life?"

Oh, the joy. She had just mentioned one of the main reasons to why Maeglin preferred to work alongside the common people in the House of the Mole, trying to avoid spending time with high-born people whose customs and traditions were so unfamiliar for him. Thankfully he managed to avoid rolling his eyes and instead answered, "Truth be told I was much too busy to think about my social obligations. Being one of the Lords in charge of smithery and metalworking is difficult enough without the distraction of visits."

Lady Meril nodded, her smile seemingly warm but hidden beneath were many calculations. What would she make of that response? "Even so, we are honored you have chosen to honor us with your visit."

"I am glad to be here."

Servants arrived with the tea—plates full of small sandwiches and small cakes, along with tea leaves and cups—and set them down on a table nearest to the window, which was misty due to the interplay of inside heat and outdoor chill. As Maeglin, Tinwen, and her mother sat down a maid arrived with a pot of boiling water.

Maeglin watched as both women selected certain leaves and placed them in a tea-strainer. The method he was used to normally had the tea leaves first placed in the boiling water until the preferred taste was brewed, and then using a tea-strainer to keep the leaves from following the water into the cup. Here, it seemed like they used a different method. So he tried to imitate them, and felt reasonably satisfied in his success.

A maid moved to put a plate near him but Maeglin held up a hand. "No sugar or milk for me, please," he said. She nodded and went over to serve Lady Meril.

Tinwen added two sugar cubes to her own tea and stirred with a dainty spoon. Maeglin took a snip, enjoying the natural taste of the peppermint tea. It reminded him of Aredhel, as she'd often brewed it at home as a reminder of Gondolin. Eöl had preferred a more stronger ginger tea, or a chamomile tea if he was unable to sleep for some reason.

"I hope that things are going well for you, my lord?" Lady Meril asked, holding her cup just below her chin, as if she were about to take a sip.

In general, Maeglin preferred to not talk about work in situations like this. Not to insult either one of the two ladies, but he seriously doubted that they would understand even half of what he might say about the work in the mines.

"Yes…", he muttered in a low voice, not really in the mood for talking. Taking one small sandwich to take a bite, he used it as an excuse to not speak at the moment.

"People are wondering where you were, last winter. All suddenly, you were gone like a ghost. The King grew worried after a while when you could not be found." Meril spoke as if she was talking about the weather.

Maeglin narrowly avoided spitting out his tea in shock. It would be most improper. "Ahem, well, I…" he began, trying to speak past the scorched lump that was his throat, as he'd been forced to swallow a large gulp of hot liquid. He settling for coughing instead. Thankfully he could use a cloth napkin to cough into without offending them. "I am not allowed to speak of it, else my uncle the King would be much displeased," he finally answered.

Displeased was a serious underestimation of how Turgon would react upon learning that his nephew's whereabouts were widely known throughout the city. It would cause a panic and threaten to destroy the order he had worked so hard to keep built up; almost no one outside the Lords even knew of Doriath's fall, let alone how precarious their position was. Not to mention how Rûsa would be a target for interrogation and possibly imprisonment without even knowing why.

"I see."

Meril almost sounded disappointed. Well, Maeglin preferred the story of being attacked by orcs when looking for a new mine that he had told Turgon in a small message he had written down once he was strong enough to hold a quill without messing up the ink, the truth was much to unpleasant to remember. Better that Turgon believed his nephew managed to escape as soon as he could rather than knowing it was through fortunate circumstance. Maeglin himself had been unable to keep track of time during his torture and only learnt how long exactly he had been missing from the Hidden City after waking up in the healing wings.

"I'm sorry I cannot be of more help, my Lady."

"It is no matter. We're glad you're home regardless. You must have seen some trouble out there in the uncivilized world." Meril drank some more tea. "You were with the healers for a long time."

A small part of Maeglin was insulted by the term "uncivilized" she had used. It hit far too close to how people had degraded Eöl and his actions against Aredhel, the not so well-hidden whispers of that surely they could not be married. He had been deeply hurt by the mere mention of being a illegitimate child as both parents were considered married by both the Laws of the Eldar and the ancient ways of the Elves before the Valar had found them. The other, more mature, part of him held his peace as subtle insults were usually the norm amongst social ladder climbers.

"It takes time to heal from the damages I suffered from that fall. Even without breaking anything, it can still be a very painful landing," Maeglin commented in a careful tone.

Tinwen, who thankfully seemed unaware of the potential tension in the room, looked around before asking, "Mother, Father is extremely late for tea. What could be keeping him?"

That gave Maeglin the perfect excuse to change subject.

"Yes, where is Elgamoth? Surely as the master of the house, he should be present?

"My husband was summoned by the King for a continued meeting that was interrupted yesterday. Seems like the royal grandson was not at his daily lessons, such a naughty child." Meril's voice was fond as she spoke.

Maeglin had no idea what kind of meeting it was, but guessed it to be the seasonal one for checking on how things were going in the city. With winter so close, they needed to ensure that the harvest would last until spring and then used to sow new plants. "Yes, Eärendil better stop doing foolish things, or he will not have a easy life when he gets older," he agreed.

Personally Maeglin thought that the young Half-Elven child got away with his behaviour in many ways because he was the only grandchild of the King, doted on by his grandfather in spite of Idril and Tuor's protests. He knew that they'd talked about trying to give Eärendil a sibling soon, so Turgon would have to distribute his attention instead of focusing on only one, but it was strictly from servant gossip and he didn't ask them about it further.

Checking the clock tower Maeglin hid a small smile behind his tea cup: it was just past the minimum time for staying at an afternoon tea invitation and if he played his cards right, he could leave without being rude.

"Actually, I think the front doors may need some new bronze door handles. Is there any possibility for an order of new ones? I'm sure we can work out the price." He had taken a quick glance at the doors when he came in to guess the design, which fortunately was one of the newer Mole models rather than the Valinorean ones. "I will send one of the errand children with the door handles and the bill once it is finished. That should not take more than a few days to fix. I thank you both for the invitation and the tea, my ladies."

His parting bow and leaving was done in a such quick manner that both mother and daughter did not get to protest. After a few minutes of shocked silence, Tinwen slowly lowered her tea cup onto its matching plate before she dropped it.

"I did not get much of a chance to talk with him, mother…" she said quietly in a sad voice.

"You will get more chances, darling. We just need to keep him here longer, and not give him a reason to run off. Remember, he has just returned to social life and seems to be a bit out of touch with—Yes?"

A maid had knocked on the door, and now looked inside the room. "Master Egalmoth is back home, Mistress, Miss."

True enough, Egalmoth soon entered the room, looked unusually tired than what he would do normally after a meeting. Pouring himself a large cup of tea and emptying it in one go, he started to speak before his wife could pose questions.

"I think the King is exaggerating his worries for his family. Not only has he nagged Lord Tuor about a second royal heir but he's also proposed plans for a winter gala, all for his nephew's sake. Isn't there anything about the city that has his concern—?"

"A gala!? When will it be held? Will it be in the Palace?!" Tinwen quickly asked in almost childish eagerness, as she was fond of social events where she could show off her graceful dancing skills. Meril, in a slightly more controlled voice, asked, "So this gala… does the King wish for his nephew to marry?"

"As far as I could tell, beloved, from what the King spoke at the end of the meeting—" Egalmoth had hardly begun when his daughter started talking excitedly about which of her dresses she could wear at the gala, especially if it was winter-themed. He resigned himself to finishing off the tea platter.

Meril was silent, the beginnings of many plans starting to form in her mind. Tinwen was old enough for marriage, and no doubt that there would be other eligible noble maidens there, even some from the rich upper-class families if she was not wrong. This would not only elevate them to royalty, but, she dared to hope, they would never be alone again, for Tinwen's courses were regular and healthy. The last time had been two years ago, only a few months before she had come of age, so there would be no worries about her fertility if the King wanted Maeglin to sire children as soon as possible.

She allowed herself a smile—this could go very well, if she played her cards right. As long as other maidens were not getting a chance to distract Maeglin from Tinwen, there was a very good chance for her daughter to end up as a member of the royal family. With that pleasant thought in mind she settled in to listen to Tinwen making plans for what she was going to wear while Egalmoth desperately tried to look interested.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Rog lived in the north-west of Gondolin, almost next to the Great Gate and roughly a kilometer from the House of the Mole. It was only logical to place them close to one another, as they were both blacksmithries. This way it would be easier for craftsmen to assist one another if help was needed in one way or another.

"This is where you live, my lord?" Rûsa asked. They were coming up to his home, a fine building with many pillars and a triangular roof; it rather resembled the library Rûsa had visited earlier. She felt at home here.

"Yes. As one of the original builders of the city I oversaw the construction of her walls and gates, so I chose to place my home here."

That caused her to blink, wide-eyed in surprise. Though she did not speak Rog could read her face, wondering how long Gondolin had been around. Then again, if she did not know her own age then such things like Gondolin's would be difficult to comprehend.

"R—Really?" she asked, sounded stunned in wonder.

"Yes. I'm not exactly 'captain of the Guard' but I still carry out my duties as if I were one. Have no fear about being so close to the walls, you're as safe as anyone else."

In truth, Rûsa was not that fond of walls. especially those of very high buildings. It reminded her of a cage, of how it was impossible to escape. How many of her fellow slaves had ended up falling to their deaths during one of their desperate attempts to escape, when they finally snapped and despaired? The thought of falling helplessly, with the ground arriving extremely quickly below…

No, she had to stop thinking like this, yet she still failed to hide a shudder.

"I d—don't like high places, my lord."

"You would not be alone. There are many Elves who insist on staying on the ground, and refuse to climb anywhere higher than a house's second floor. Even I found it difficult to adjust, long ago."

Maeglin, for example, was not one of those Elves. Born in a forest with some of the tallest trees in Beleriand, he was fearless at climbing and was steady on his feet. Rog was less sure about climbing trees, due to being so strong that there was a risk of a weak tree branch snapping under his weight and cause him to fall. It did not help that Rog also was taller than most Elves here in Gondolin. But Rûsa, with her small height and slender build, may be able of become a skilled climber once she got a chance to try it out.

"Is it because of how tall you are, my lord?"

The question was so innocent that Rog had to hide a laugh. The servants would enjoy having her in the house, that was for sure. "That is not entirely the reason, but yes that is part of it." He smiled to let her know she wasn't being dismissed. "I dislike high places anyway, lest I lose my balance. It's a shameful secret of mine."

She blinked twice, trying to figure out how he meant. He  _was_  much taller and stronger than any of the male slaves she had treated as a slave healer, that was true, but what did he mean about the balance? Once again, Rûsa felt that strange anger she had felt in her heart at times laterly, anger over how  _little_ she seemed to know in contrast to the Elves of Gondolin. In Angband, her skills had been perfectly fine, yet here… she wanted to know. Know more, learn more…

Suddenly, a cold wind blew by and she shivered from the light change in temperature. Feeling something around her, Rûsa through blurred eyes saw Rog place his cloak around her, forsaking his own comfort.

"Let's go inside, or Idril may be cross with me for letting you freeze."

She nodded, not liking the cold too much herself. "The healers s—said something about that it w—will be even colder soon. I—Is that true?" She shivered in spite of the coat she pulled more tightly about her.

"Yes, outside of Angband the world has regular seasons. It is unfortunate that you came at a time as you did, being cooped up with healers for most of Summer. Winter is not very kind in the mountains, and Autumn lasts for a few weeks at the most because we are so far north." He did not mention that they may as well be on Angband's doorstep in spite of the mountain shield. Continuing, he said, "There is a great difference between the seasons for those who are not used to it. But I think that you will enjoy Spring when it comes. The following Summer is a favorite season for many, with pleasant warmth and lots of fresh food."

As one could guess from a former slave used to starvation, Rûsa made a clear attention when promise of food were mentioned. "That would be lovely," she ventured with a smile.

"As for your worries about being cold, I think that with the right help and warm clothing, you may not be too bothered by the winter cold." Rog could already imagine his household staff bundling up her in layers on layers of warm clothes at seeing how slender she was. She would have to struggle to breathe before long.

He made a note to speak to the Housekeeper concerning winter apparel for her as they entered his home. Rûsa was the smallest woman for her age he had ever met, and there would have to be clothes suitable for her. Outside everyday clothing, she would need fitting outdoor shoes for warmer weather and a pair of good winter boots, some nice slippers for indoors, a few fine dresses fit for the various celebrations that occasionally happened and some ordinary ones. Jewelry would not be a issue for now, it was doubtful that she even knew how to use such items. But some minor things that the house maids would know better than him, yes.

"How about I show you where you'll be staying for the time being? There'll be more than enough time for exploration later in the morning when you are fully rested," he offered.

"A—All right…"

She took his offered hand and he led her inside the building that would be her new home from now on.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

It was not normal for Maeglin to seek out the clan elders yet he had a strong feeling that he needed to do so tonight. The meeting with Tinwen and her mother had left him rattled, and uncertain, and he had no one to turn to. It was then little surprising his feet led him to seek out his father's old advisors. The cave they lived in—made out of clay and tree branches—was a little bit larger than his own chambers, enough space for eight people inside even without him entering. The smell of dried herbs and smoke was strong.

"Welcome, young Lord and master. It has been a while since you saw us last."

Maeglin had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before he saw them. Four couples sat in near darkness around a shrouded fire, seemingly in meditation. They served as shamans for the Elmothdrim, ever since before the Eldalië met the Valar, when they spoke to the animals and the trees and worshipped the stars. They had also been his father's first companions; now they served him.

Once, their full-body tattoos of red henna and black ink would have scared him slightly, but Maeglin was fully grown now, having faced worse sights than their wild appearance. He took his seat before them.

"My instincts told me to find you. I have… a feeling, a portent of the future. I don't know what it is. Perhaps you can help me figure it out?" He offered a bottle of fine wine as payment for services, as was traditional.

"Give us three drops of blood, for three seems to be the number haunting you tonight," one of the men requested, holding out a needle of bone.

Maeglin did so, carefully picking a finger and holding it over a bowl another shaman—a woman—gave to him. Once three drops had landed inside she took back the bowl and handed it to the one on her left. Maeglin was left to his own devices, waiting while they divided his problem.

They felt the Unseen world more keenly than the average Calaquendi, for they were among the first to glimpse the stars of Varda and were as strong as those who had gone to Valinor. He did not need to wait long before they found an answer.

"Your first worry is of the Dark Lord," the woman to his right spoke. "And indeed he shall come to find the Hidden City, for he declares himself master of the fates of Arda. But this shall not be accomplished because you had been captive."

Maeglin felt a huge weight slide from his shoulders and he exhaled, feeling the tension go from him. This had been one of his chiefest worries, for in spite of his endurance he had rambled many things during those hated interrogations with Sauron. Something might have slipped through.

"Thank you," he answered.

The woman inclined her head. But the shaman directly in front of Maeglin, with the fire between them, caught his eyes. "There are two more pressing thoughts on your  _fae_ ; tell us, for these are hidden from our sight."

Maeglin related, haltingly and with some difficulty, how Turgon wished for him to marry and have children; and how he did not feel himself up for the task. It was true he wanted to find a bride, but he couldn't because of the danger only he and the other Lords saw. "I need your advice more than anything," he finished, desperation in his eyes. "As you once counselled my father, please help me."

The shaman answered. "The King is a fool in so many ways, trusting to the strength of his material might and arms rather than the blessings of the Water King." (This was the Avarin name for Ulmo.)

"We have seen a strong line growing through the Half-Elven his daughter has borne," the first woman said. "But for you, master Maeglin… the Unseen world is dark. Your father's curse is strong."

"But…" he pleaded. "I have done nothing to deserve it. Can it not be assuaged?"

"Only the All-Father knows."

"What then can I do? Is my future beloved also cursed?"

"Like your father before, you shall also marry and have one child. But where your father died through the law of the King, you shall die through unforeseen circumstance beyond your control."

"What then of my beloved?" he asked. "Will she be drawn into my curse?"

"Only the All-Father knows. Your future is cloudy but certain. Her future is black, and uncertain. But mayhap her fate will be unlike your blessed mother."

"What of the child?"

The third woman, who had yet unspoken, answered him. "You have three worries, no more or less. The Dark Lord, the King, and your beloved."

"But the child is from my beloved. Is it not connected to her?"

"True." This was from the shaman who gave him the needle, between the first woman and the one directly across Maeglin. He was blind in one eye. "But the Unseen does not know, the All-Father willing."

"Tell me more about my beloved. Do you know who she is?"

"Do not be presumptuous as your father was," they chided him. "He had demanded of our help to ensnare your blessed mother, much have we regretted this. Think of what we have told you and be content."

"I thank you for your wisdom." Maeglin bowed his head. He rose to stand, but a hand shot out to catch him.

"You and your beloved will be tested," the second female shaman said. "Just as your father had been tested, so shall you. Your blessed mother gave her life to keep yours. You will have enemies on every side; keep her close by."

He felt a chill run down his spine. "I won't kill her," he whispered.

"Be alert, and trust in your allies." And that was all they said.

On his way home Maeglin pondered their words, especially the parts where he would take after his father. One thing was for certain, he would not force whomever he chose to be his bride nor possessively keep her—living in Gondolin had taught him much. For a moment he wondered if she would be like Aredhel, the White Lady, then put it out his mind. He had far better things to worry about, let his uncle natter him about marriage, when it came to that it would be his decision.

He resolved to tell no one about this visit. As the Lord of the Elmothdrim he was entitled to his secrets, even among his peers, but the King might have questions should he catch any inkling of this. He looked down upon such unorthodox spiritualities as shamanism.

Maeglin did not need any reason to make Turgon more suspicious than what he already was—it was difficult enough to hide the truth of his long disappearance from the King, even with the white lie of how exactly long he spent in Angband. But should he start courting Rûsa he had better keep it from Turgon. Not for his own sake, but for hers.

She had not met Turgon, and he was growing curious of what Idril was up to. It was only a matter of time before she was discovered. When that happened, Maeglin was determined that by then he and Rûsa would have been committed together.

Damn the Dark Lord, he was going to do this.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N1 (from Rogercat): Tolkien never mentioned any close details about Elven bodies, apart from pregnancy lasting for a full year and that Elves reach their adult height at age 50 before entering puberty and is viewed as fully grown at age 100.
> 
> Since the few named canon female Elves — three generations Galadriel, her daughter Celebrian and granddaughter Arwen — that we know of have children far past the age of at least 2000 years, their menstrual cycle would logically be very different from human females. My personal headcanon concerning this is they have a pattern beginning every fifth year, and lasting for about two months, which is what Meril is referring to as evidence for Tinwen's sexual maturity.
> 
> Other named She-Elves as examples: Maeglin's mother Aredhel is stated on Tolkien Gateway to have been 1,722 years old at her death, counting in Years of the Sun. She and Galadriel, first-cousins by their fathers (who were blood-brothers), is stated to have been born the same year. Other female relatives of theirs we do not know the exact dates, except for Celebrian, who was born in the early to mid Second Age and Arwen born in year 241 of the Third Age.
> 
> A/N2 (from OAC_QI): … Rogercat's headcanons about spirituality before the Great Journey is based on Native American beliefs, though not strictly as there are differences. But it is more or less logical for pre-Great Journey Elves to be more "attuned" to the Unseen world in lesser ways compared to those who went to Valinor. Think of them as moonlight compared to the blazing sunshine of Valinorean Elves.


	9. Love and Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rûsa makes a friend and receives a gift.

~X~

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_Love and Friendship_ **

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

**_"The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread."  
_ ** _—Mother Teresa_

While he slept reasonably well, Maeglin awoke with the words of the shamans still in his mind. As he got dressed and prepared himself for the day ahead he mulled them over in his mind.

_While it is nice to know that I will not be the reason Gondolin is found by Morgoth, I still need to find a way keep Rûsa hidden away from my uncle's knowledge,_ he thought with some trepidation. _With his plans to possibly marry me off with a lady I might never have shared more than a few common greetings with… this will be difficult._                     

If anything, Rûsa was the opposite of what Turgon would want in a bride for his nephew in every way possible. Maeglin knew that the late lady Elenwë had belonged to a well-off family from the minor Vanyarin nobility, but as the second son of the middle High Noldorin prince (as Fingolfin had been called among the sons of Finwë as the family tree grew in number) Turgon had been able to get away with some things that neither Fingon or their Fëanorian cousins had managed, since they had been either older than him or higher up in the succession order to the Kingship of the Noldor. Turgon was twelfth in line back then, as Fëanor in all his famed stubbornness had gone against tradition and openly declared his oldest child Maedhros as his heir despite Maedhros being a princess. Thankfully that rift had been healed by the princess herself when she abdicated not her claim but that of her House’s following her rescue from Thangorodrim.                  

_Thanks to us only meeting the evening before he died, uncle Fingon never got the chance to tell me if he was married and had an heir of his own, or other children! As far as I currently know, I am technically third-in-line after Eärendil…_      

As he had done so often in the years after Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Maeglin cursed Morgoth for being the reason to why so many direct and distant family members had died without him ever meeting them. And now, at realizing that Turgon was serious in marrying him off despite his protests, Maeglin wondered how Fingon would have reacted to it. Somehow, he could truly imagine his two maternal uncles enter a rather serious quarrel about that, and how would his grandfather Fingolfin react?  

_No, I do not want to think of that now… it would be nice to see Rûsa more often, now when I know how much better she is in health._

While Maeglin could admit to himself that he did not know much of courtship, he thought it would be a good start to set up a pattern of days where they could meet. Idril had sent him a small notice that Rûsa was to become a ward of Rog’s, a fitting choice in his opinion, as Rog was one of the few Elves who had seen her that day when they had been found together and he could trust the older Lord to be silent. Besides, if she were well enough to start showing signs of independence, her having another place to live would also be easier for him to meet her. Walking over to the healing wings too often could set off gossip that his health was weaker than previously thought, and the last thing he needed was people inquiring after his wellbeing for fear of Rûsa’s discovery.

_Oh well, it is no use worrying over what may have been or what will be,_ he decided, pulling on his jacket and turning for the door. _The present is what’s important. I’ve spent too much time already wallowing in the past._

Maeglin left for his work, which was going to be yet another round of signing papers and approving permission slips. Perhaps in the afternoon, when he would meet up with Rog about the new weapons that had been made in secret over the past weeks, he could try and ask if he could meet with Rûsa at times since they were reasonable familiar with each other from earlier. With that comforting thought in mind he found himself walking with a lighter step.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Sleeping in a unfamiliar bed was not easy, but thanks to all the nice blankets so she could create her usual bed nest to sleep in, Rûsa was reasonable rested when she woke up. In fact, it was the sound of movement which woke her up.        

With her blurry view the shape she saw seemed to be a person bending over near her bed with something in its hands. The next moment she felt something warm and hard—like a flat cobblestone—press against her back as the mattress raised itself up. The warmth helped Rûsa to wake up properly, and in her mind, warmth meant what little comfort that could be found for slaves. Her eyes opened and she started to sit up.

“Oh, pardon me. Did not mean to wake you up, I have never really mastered adding this under the mattress without waking people up,” a feminine voice spoke, sounding apologetic.  

“I… It i—is fine…” Rûsa whispered, suddenly shivering as she sat up and left some of the warmth in the bed.

“Looks like you are the kind of person who feels cold after waking up. No worry, I will draw the bath for you right away! Oh, I am Bereniel, by the way.”  

One of the strongest contrasts between Angband and Gondolin, at least for  Rûsa, was something as simple as a hot bath, a luxury beyond her wildest dreams. She could recall her healers saying that a great deal of her earlier bad health was caused by all of the dirt on her body, hiding both scars and parasites. Now that she was used to being clean she wondered why she had ever learned to live with it, but then, it was the same for all the other slaves in Angband. Getting bitten by fleas and other vermin had been the least of her worries back then, however, with ever-present fear of punishment or risking the lives of other slaves because of carelessness being her greatest concerns.

“Thank you,” she said.      

“It is no problem, Master Rog wants all of his wards to be healthy and taken care of.” Bereniel finished setting up the tub and now disappeared into a smaller side room, and steam started to curl from it. “Get prepared for the bath, it’ll save us time,” she added.

Rûsa slid out of her comfortable bed, feeling almost sorry to leave behind the warmth. She did not know it but it was a featherbed, stuffed with down from ducks and geese, as well appointed as the King’s bed. Even the hospital had featherbeds, though of lesser quality. She stood there with some awkwardness, not sure of what to do, whether to get dressed or not, but eventually started to disrobe. Idril had always encouraged her to take initiative, braid her hair, and put something comfortable on. Here, with an unfamiliar girl poking around, she had no idea of what to expect. After all, baths were still an alien experience for her despite having been scrubbed several times while recovering; after that experience she was left to her own devices, with baths being infrequent as she desired them. For her, using so much water felt like wastage when it could be used for washing clothing, preparing food, sterilizing medical equipment, and other important things—not on someone’s body unless absolutely necessary, like infection or some other serious thing. She had not yet grasped it but for someone of her suddenly elevated social status bathing regularly was to be expected.  

Thankfully, when she returned to fill the tub, Bereniel commented nothing about the scars on her body, knowing that would be extremely impolite to ask about such things. And it was not the first time she had seen similar scars either, many of the warriors did have some scars as a reminder of battles. She helped Rûsa into the tub even though it was not necessary.

“I can see right away that the cooks will need to feed you more,” Bereniel said, beginning to wash the girl’s hair. “You are a bit on the thin side even for someone of your height. This explains why you freeze from the cold winds outside, my lady.” She kept talking, more for herself than Rûsa, but she noted the girl relaxed more when there was chatter.

She said nothing about the hair color as she combed the soap out, but was intrigued. Perhaps the young miss had an unknown ancestor with dark red hair and she had inherited it instead of sharing a hair colour with the rest of the family, just like Bereniel herself had gotten her wild dark blonde curls from a Sinda paternal grandfather she had never met. Oh, how it had greatly annoyed Bereniel at times to stand out from her parents and siblings when they all shared the black or dark brown of the Noldor!  

“My parents and siblings are all blacksmiths, farriers, or soldiers for Lord Rog, but I have always been clumsy so they did not think it to be safe work for me. Being a maid is easier, and I’ve only broken a few plates, but I was new at the time and the soap bar was slippery. Thankfully the cooks were understanding, and those plates were ugly anyway.”      

Rûsa had no idea what she talked about, and remained silent while listening. In Angband such chatter had been forbidden, as it could distract slaves from doing their work. Yet somehow it was actually nice to hear Bereniel talk on like this, since Rûsa had always felt uneasy with silence around her. Now, she realized, it was because she had missed in some way the low murmur of her fellow slaves and the ringing of tongs. What a curious thing.

“There! All dried up and nice, time for the clothes you will wear today.”         

Perhaps Rûsa had grown a little more brave simply by changing home without realizing it herself, for after the needed help to put on the corset she tried her best to pull on a turquoise underdress with long sleeves before Bereniel helped her add the second layer of a dress made from a soft lilac fabric. Together, the two layers helped her to keep warm without overheating when she was inside. A large belt of light green fabric were added as a finishing touch around her waist before the cloak she wore out of habit.

“Thank you, Bereniel,” Rûsa said with sincerity as they went to the door.

To her surprise Bereniel enveloped her in a hug. “You looked very lonely so I tried to be as helpful as I could,” she answered with warmth, squeezing her.

Rûsa could feel the onset of tears, which she tried to suppress. Fortunately Bereniel released her and turned for the door, allowing her to compose herself before moving on.

_She seems nice enough_ , she thought. _Perhaps she and I can be… friends._ It was a new word to her, a concept she had little understanding in. But the longer she lived here, the more she grew used to it. Perhaps one day she could be as free as this Sinda girl.

One day.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

“Look who is up early and ready for breakfast this morning, Lord Rog!” Bereniel called as she guided Rûsa towards the dining area. By talking louder, she got the attention of the Elves working in the kitchen too.

Rog nodded to her as he came closer. “Good morning to you, Bereniel,” he answered. “I hope that you slept well, Rûsa?”         

Rûsa gave him a small nod in response, not daring to say anything yet or raise her eyes from the floor.  

“There is no reason to be afraid. Come, it is time for breakfast.”

The servants, who were familiar with their Lord and his manner around the orphans he cared for, gave each other meaningful looks. In fact, none of them had been much surprised when Rog had showed up the evening before, telling them that Rûsa was to be a new ward. Her behavior was typical of an orphan to their eyes, and they knew she needed some space to herself to adjust. Some of them looked carefully at Bereniel, wondering if she had imposed anything on her, but she only winked at them as she hurried ahead.

“That is so like you, my Lord,” Bereniel was saying gayly. “Instead of stray animals you take home, it’s all the orphans out there.”

Rûsa was confused by the servant’s statements. What did she mean by that? Had Rog been taking in other orphans before, others like _her_? She shuddered, feeling pity for those orphans who had suffered under the Dark Lords, and who would never get a chance to escape that life like herself.

She found the house was very welcoming to someone like her, with gentle colours in turquoise and white starting from the entrance hall with a nice contrast to the roof of dark wood, lit warmly by various hearths placed strategically to maximize heat output and comfortableness. On the way to the dining hall Rûsa had caught sight of the parlor, which was painted in soft shades of marigold to emphasize coziness and filled with large armchairs and tall shelves full of what she could only assume were books.

The dining hall was more simply outfitted, with many long wooden tables and benches set in neat rows. It had a high vaulted ceiling with many windows letting in the strong light of day, which made her spirits feel light with happiness. She loved nothing more than light. After the darkness of Angband, punctuated by fiery red light and orange glowing metal, the brightness of the clear unclouded morning was a joy to her. Rûsa could only imagine what the two fabled Trees of far off Valinor would have been like. If they had been half as glorious as the Sun she would have fainted.

“I will show you the rest of the house after breakfast. It is more pleasant when everyone eats together,” Rog was saying to her. Rûsa snapped out of her wide-eyed staring at all of the beautiful colors and looked at him with some blankness.

Before she could ask where she should sit several workers of Rog’s House arrived, discussing amongst themselves about work they would do today. Even after they had cleaned up and changed into other clothes that was not used in the forges, Rûsa could still identify them as smiths, based on the familiar scents of coal and molten metal that stuck to a few of them. While wondering where she had smelled that before Rog was tapping her shoulder.               

“Please, sit down.”          

Rog pointed to the seat right next to the largest of them, and shortly took his place in the big chair. Rûsa understood that this was a seat of honor, for none of the workers even glanced at the seat, other than to nod their acknowledgement of their Lord. So hesitantly she gathered her skirts about her and sat down.

As soon as Rog had sat down—and as did most of the workers—the kitchen staff immediately began serving food in steaming bowls. The workers were uncharacteristically (at least to her limited understanding) served first before Rog was. Even she was given a bowl and plate before him, which struck her as being very odd. Why would his servants eat first and not him?   

The smells emanating from the bowl before her chased away those thoughts before she could pursue them. Taking a deep breath she inhaled a savory scent that immediately made her mouth water. It smelled almost exactly like the nice oatmeal porridge she had eaten at the healers, only more delicious and… almost melted on the tongue, that was all she could think of when trying to compare it to what she knew.

“The semolina porridge will get cold if you don’t eat it,” a voice that was not Rog’s said to her right.

Rûsa yelped, and dropped her spoon. Bereniel had taken a seat on her other side, eating her own porridge with heartiness. “S—Sorry…” Rûsa said.

She was not aware of it, but Rûsa’s body language said that she was not really used to sitting so close to others when eating. In Angband, she had stuck to herself in the corner so her food would not be stolen by another, copper collar or no. Newcomers among the Outside-born often made that mistake and didn’t protect their food, and faced further starvation thanks to either eating too slowly or refusing it altogether. Those who survived learned to watch their plates lest someone steal it.    

“Is the porridge different from what you have eaten before?” Rog asked at seeing Rûsa almost choking from eating too fast, out of old habit. She coughed in a attempt to get some air, her eyes watering as she nodded weakly. Bereniel gently patted her back.

“Careful there, you do not need to eat that fast…”

“I—It feels so… so… different,” she sputtered, trying to recover. “I have never eaten with others before, in such company.”       

Rog nodded with understanding but Bereniel looked puzzled. Had perhaps this young miss been one of those youngsters who was very sheltered by her parents or guardian when growing up? She did not seem like it, though, at least not in the manner which would reveal a native look on the world.  

“But I hope that it tastes well?” Rog’s tone was kindly, not forcing her to answer if she did not want to.  

“Yes, it’s fine….” she said in a low voice, trying to encourage herself to keep eating. Thankfully, most people was polite enough to pretend to not have noticed her earlier choking. Bereniel looked carefully at Rûsa.

“The head cook and the rest of the kitchen staff will be happy to hear that you like the breakfast,” she said. “You may find they will likely try and give you extra food, they don’t like it when someone is hungry.” She nodded at Rûsa’s wrists, which still looked thin even after months of better nourishment.

“A—Ah, right...”  Rûsa answered, blushing, realizing that despite the efforts of Idril and the healers, she still needed some more weight. She started to eat her breakfast with a little more enthusiasm, to Bereniel’s satisfaction.  

“Atta girl, you’ll be full in no time.” She resumed her meal but soon started gesturing around the hall, motions which Rûsa realized was her pointing out certain people of interest. She could not see them in the distance, though she heard Bereniel mention them as fellow house maids and the head cook who was in command over the kitchen.

“If you need help with something, don’t be shy. It is our duty to help. You are our master’s ward.”  

“What do you do here?” Rûsa asked.

“Oh, I’m just a maid. I clean empty rooms and change their sheets, and sometimes I’m sent out to fetch water, the usual. A big place like this won’t clean itself.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Not at all. It’s hard sometimes but only because the Housekeeper wants everything to be spotless, and sometimes one of the other maids spills something and I have to clean up.” She huffed. “Still, when the day’s passed and night comes, I can relax for a while before bed, so it’s not all bad. We even have a set of free days once in a while, so we does not need to work everyday.”

For Rûsa, that sounded so different from her life as a slave. They had to work nearly every time they were awake, and no illness or other reasons for working slower was accepted. It was to work to earn your share of food or go hungry.

“Do not distract her from eating, Bereniel,” Rog smiled before nodding towards the half-empty bowl Rûsa still had in front of her.

“It’s fine. I need to know about my home. She hasn’t been distracting.”

Rog nodded. “There are seconds available when you finish.”

Bereniel laughed. “Now you tell her. Listen—” she leaned toward Rûsa “—that man will be beside himself with worry if his wards haven’t gotten a full meal each day. So try not to send him to an early grave.”

“I am hearing that perfectly fine since I am sitting right here at the same table, young missy.”

Rûsa could not help but giggle. Perhaps Rog and Idril actually been right, in that it would do her good to move out from the healing wing to live as one of his wards. If Rog was used to take care of people, and given how safe she felt around him, perhaps it would work.

“So what else do you want to know about?”

“Mmm… I… I am pretty good at sewing and mending clothes, but I would like t—to… expand…” Rûsa was unsure how to explain it, the not so small wish of trying on those pretty embroidery she had seen at times.

“I’d love to teach you! I’ve got quite a few patterns mastered, and some are a family tradition.”

“Oh?”

That was new information for her. Did mothers actually teach their daughters to sew here? Another difference from Angband, where you normally learnt sewing by trying to close up wounds and trying to keep your ragged clothes from falling apart. Personally Rûsa thought that she was pretty good at it, but seeing the embroidery here told her a very different world. To think, that you could create such images simply by needle and thread in different colors and shapes! The variety astounded her, that these people had such a life of plenty and free of worry that they could devote their time and resources to such fripperies… it boggled the mind.

Still, the thought of trying something like that herself….there was a new, strange eagerness in her mind. Even as a small child, Rûsa had always had a steady hand in sewing and she could recall a distant memory of the adult slaves muttering that she must have the blood of a seamstress in her veins, so neat pattern as she could do. Back then, it had not been something to think about, but here in Gondolin it could mean something.  

Bereniel was chatting on. “—and oh was she mad every time I messed up the stitching and had to pull it all out again. Finally she took it away from me and showed me where I was doing it wrong and had me start a new one.”

Rûsa nodded, beginning to understand. She didn’t realize it but she had a small smile that was growing bigger the more she listened to her. But out of habit, she tried to carefully smuggle down a few pieces of bread in a pocket to eat later in secret.

Rog noticed how Rûsa listened to Bereniel as he drank his morning beer. That pleased him, for it showed she was becoming more and more normal, comfortable and adjusting well. Sure, Angband would always be part of her being, but hopefully that shadow could be pushed back and be part of the distant past one day. She just needed time.

An errand boy, in the coat of the House of the Mole, carefully sneaked up to his other side so the two ladies were not disturbed in their conversation.

“Lord Maeglin will arrive with the cargo this afternoon, my Lord. Sometime after lunch and before the afternoon tea, at least.”

“Thank you kindly,” Rog answered, his attention immediately focused on the boy. “Give Lord Maeglin my regards.”

The boy nodded, getting a freshly baked bread bun with butter and cheese from one of the kitchen maids as he departed.    

Good, this was a promising day in that alone. Now, they only needed to create a formal excuse to more training. Perhaps something to train for the official celebration of prince Eärendil seventh birthday this coming Midsummer? The prince was born around Midsummer Eve after all. That was a thought to mull over with Prince Tuor and surely Princess Idril would agree that it was a perfect way to hide the real battle training. Besides, the King loved grand events, as the coming winter gala proved so it would be easy to fool him if there were any… “questions” that arose.  

Hopefully Maeglin would be spared any grand event on his own begetting-day later when Winter slowly began to give way for Spring, given his own unease at big social events, not to mention the unfortunate implications surrounding his conception even if Maeglin tried pointing out that his parents had not started to have trouble in their marriage until he was in adolescence and they had clashed over how he was to be brought up. Maeglin had swapped stories whenever they had gone out to the pub, and Rog himself had a fair bit of differences with the culture of Gondolin, as he was not exactly a full-blooded Noldo.

Oh well, no time to think of the past now, Rog had work to do.        

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

“For the last time, Glorfindel, stop brooding over what happened a few days ago and quit muttering that the King is spoiling Maeglin by allowing him to get away with things behind his back. If it is someone in the royal family that is spoiled, it is the prince Eärendil.” Salgant took a gulp from his water skin, keeping true to his promise to try and cut down on the rich food and wine that he normally loved. Right now he had just returned to do some work on the training fields, trying to build up his old strength again before too many people came to train, and Glorfindel had volunteered to help him—and was now complaining about Salgant’s choice of weaponry. Personally, it was because he too was out of shape, Salgant thought.

The weapon he had chosen, a chain whip, was an unusual one for an Elf, even for him, but the advantage outweighed the oddity, as he could quickly surprise an enemy if he lost his glaive in battle. Glorfindel had not expected the sudden attack and was not happy over losing to him—and it was only a training duel. The blond Elf had far too much pride for his own good.    

“Eärendil has the excuse of being young and people loving to spoil children. Maeglin has no such excuse…”  

Glorfindel was interrupted by Salgant tossing the last of his drinking water in his face. In a moment of childishness, the blond Elf responded with pushing the heavier Elf almost off the bench. In return, Salgant locked his legs around Glorfindel’s and pulled him down with him, and within a few moments the two Lords were brawling like youngsters. Salgant had the advantage of falling atop him, squashing the taller but thinner Lord with his weight.

Pretending to be oblivious to the fight behind them since they had heard Glorfindel's comments about Maeglin, Tuor and Galdor continued their conversation, having paused in their own dueling. Salgant was surprisingly loud in fighting and it proved useful in keeping Glorfindel oblivious to anything else beyond trying to pummel his fellow Lord’s face. 

“So far everything is going well. The House of the Mole has done well in their part of the plan,” Galdor was saying.                 

“The King is wise, but… it seems more as of late his wisdom has blinded him. He deems this place strong and impregnable yet forgets the Doom placed upon all who followed Fëanor.” Tuor signed, remembering of his time as a slave to the Easterlings, those Men who followed the Dark Lord. He would rather be buried alive than to be subject to that kind of life again, especially as he now had a wife and son to protect.

“There seems to be a very thin line between wisdom and tomfoolery,” Galdor muttered. He was looking at Salgant out of the corner of his eyes, observing his fight with Glorfindel who looked more and more like a green-and-silver pancake the longer Salgant sat on his back, his arm twisted painfully ‘round his back.

“I only hope that not too many innocent people will have to suffer for it, even if we might save as many as we can. The innocent are always the first victims when danger shows up.”

Glorfindel suddenly shouted in pain as Salgant now indeed became too heavy for him. Even with his love for good food and a nice life, Salgant still was someone to not take lightly in battle, be it in a real one or in training. From an early age in Valinor, he had learnt a few unusual ways to use his body and weight, as they were not very common among the Eldar. Some may call it cheating, but Salgant were not above using dirty tricks if it meant victory or survival.       

“If your pride is hurt by losing to me then start training properly against both common soldiers and the elite ones! _Or has this peaceful life in this hidden city made you weak?!_ A Lord who allows himself to go soft is no leader to his House or men at all! Nor is he worthy of being a guard for the royal family! Following the set rules can end up as a weakness that could lead to death if you do not start thinking out of the box once in a while, narrow-minded idiot!”

Tuor and Galdor could tell that Salgant was secretly enjoying the chance to strike a blow to Glorfindel's pride since the Lord had little to no control over his mouth about Salgant's body weight at times, and to also get through to him that his preference for training as if it were courtly dueling was deadly. Even if Turgon was insistent that the city was safe no one could fault him for the insistence: Gondolin was not invincible. But as it was now, Angband would crush them before they even got to set up a proper defence of the city if their own soldiers and Lords were not training seriously.

“Do you think Salgant is annoyed over Glorfindel’s handsome arrogance?” Galdor asked as an aside.

Tuor thought about it for a moment. “I won’t deny that the Lord of the Golden Flower needs to get his head down from the clouds at times, before he fully vanishes into the sky. Besides, he has not even gathered up his hair, he is literally inviting people to pull on it and make him lose focus!”

“Perhaps he just hadn’t thought about it? Salgant did launch an attack quickly at the onset of the duel.”

“He was stupid regardless. From the way Salgant’s used it against him, he’ll wisen up soon enough.”

Galdor felt an ominous chill pass through him. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll be enough. Glorfindel is stubborn and set in his ways. The attack may come at any moment, and he won’t have time to react.”

“Let us pray that it will not come to that. No one deserves to be remembered for failing to realise a such important part as not having your hair bound up for battle.”

Salgant had gotten up to go freshen up. Glorfindel lay with his hair a mess about his head, defeated and beaten, or just winded. Eventually he stood, bones audibly cracking as he straightened himself out, and stumbled toward the shed to get out of the sun.

Without anything further to discuss Galdor and Tuor returned to their own practicing now when there was no risk of Glorfindel overhearing something he should not.  

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

As far as Rûsa could tell herself, it seemed to be a good first day as Rog's newest ward. Everyone was nice, and no one got annoyed when she stopped walking to look around her. That alone made her feel better over being in this new home of hers. When the midday meal had been eaten (a chicken stew with root vegetables) and afternoon had come, Rûsa even was encouraged by the gathered house maids to try spinning some sheep wool with a drop spindle, through as a beginner she naturally had difficult to make it even and neat. She listened while they explained that spinning wool and flax fibers into yarn for clothing was something to do during the coming winter season, since the snow and hard ground made it impossible to farm.  

“Look!” a younger maid not quite in her forties said, pointing out the window. “Mole people are coming with their Lord! I wonder how long they spent in the tunnels!” She giggled at her own joke.

All the others rose from their seats, but Rûsa remained seated as she was unsure how to react.

“Why do they need so many wagons?” another maid wondered.

One offered her view. “Our Lord is a blacksmith, same as the Lord Maeglin. They need them to transport ore and other things back and forth between our Houses.”

“But this is far too many wagons for merely transporting stuff,” a third maid protested. “Why this many?”

“Perhaps they struck another vein in the mines?”

“Let’s go outside to find out!” Bereniel rose from her chair, taking the lead.  They clattered outside, Rûsa following from behind. For some reason she chose to hide near a pillar and watch the newcomers. Maeglin made her heart flutter and she didn’t want to collapse.

Sure enough, she saw him among his men, dismounting a wagon. It seemed to be full of bags and sacks, or so her eyes told her—what was beneath all of those coverings she couldn’t figure out.

“Good to see you today, Lord Maeglin. I hope that the King has not given you any troubles over the gala later this winter?”

He laughed. “Only a little trouble, nothing I can’t handle myself. Where is Lord Rog?”

“He is inside, my Lord.”

“Thank you… what was your name, ma’am?”   

Bereniel giggled, putting her hand to her mouth. “No need to be so formal, my Lord. I’m Bereniel.”

“Thank you.” He bestowed her a smile.

Rûsa felt something strange rise within her, a pang that was similar to feeling abandonment and shame. She didn’t yet know the words to put to it, but she did know it was not right that Bereniel should be receiving that praise.

The maids backed away as Maeglin’s men unloaded the sacks and carried them toward the house. When Bereniel asked what was in them, Maeglin just told her and the rest to go back inside. “It’s coal for the forges,” he added when they didn’t immediately depart.

It was then he caught sight of Rûsa behind the pillar, nearly in shadow. Even with the hood she wore to protect her eyesight there was no mistaking her—the uncertain movements, the slight shivers which indicated a suppressed flight-or-fight response, and the way she tried to shrink, almost unconsciously, into the stone. Pretending he did not see her Maeglin took a sack from a worker and trudged toward the building.   

Rog was sitting at a small table close to the front door, the reason being several smaller messengers that he planned to send by errand runners once they all was written. He looked up at seeing Maeglin come, pausing in the writing.   

“Nice to see you, Maeglin. I hope that the maids were not too curious about you showing up?”

“Nothing too worrying. Here is the ore you requested, I hope it will be sufficient.”

“Thank you.” He looked at Maeglin, amusement in his face. “I thought you would be busy back at your forge, is there any pressing reason why you came here?”

“Not exactly, Rog, but I wanted to make sure it was delivered safely.”

“Or perhaps you wanted to see my _newest_ ward as a by-product of this visit?”

Maeglin flushed; there was no way he could have hid it. “Yes,” he admitted lamely, feeling like he was a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

Rog laughed. “Well, she should be with the housemaids somewhere in the house. Several of them were curious when they saw the wagons come.”

“Thank you, I’ll try and see her before I return home.”

As if anticipating this very thing Rûsa was not very far from the door, attempting to glimpse him without Maeglin seeing her. Rog wondered if she had heard any of their conversation—for it could be a risk—and he tested this by tapping his quill against the inkwell. Her ears twitched, imperceptibly, but he could see it.

Maeglin looked uncomfortable. “Uh… with your permission, I’ll leave now. I don’t think I can put off my work any longer.”

“Having second thoughts?”

“Not at all, I just thought it’d be best if I left.” He nodded toward Rog and turned to leave quickly.  

Much to his embarrassment the moment Maeglin pushed the door aside he knocked Rûsa over. She had gotten very close in the time of his indecision and stood just outside the doorframe where she thought she’d be hidden. Unfortunately that left her with a bump on her rear and a very flustered Maeglin trying and failing to pull her up quickly without fuss. Worst of all was Rog very visibly concealing his amusement.  

“Quit laughing, Rog, it is not funny!” Maeglin muttered as he helped her up again. Rûsa was not sure of why Rog laughed but it was a gentle one, so it would not mean that she had done anything bad.

“Sometimes you youngsters are just too wonderful to watch for a good laugh,” Rog grinned while Rûsa tried to find her voice so she could greet Maeglin properly.        

“S… Sorry…” she whispered.           

“Don’t scare that little bird into flying off before you even get to say anything to her,” Rog joked in good humor when Rûsa almost looked ready to run. Maeglin shot him a warning look, before returning his attention to the smaller She-elf.   

“Are… you feeling comfortable here as a ward of Rog? There have not been any problems, I hope?” Maeglin asked, trying to not sound too worried. Still, some of his own memories lurked at the surface of his mind, over a hundred years ago.

“Yes. Everyone is kind. It is… very different, even to the healing wings. There is more… _life_ here, somehow. A feeling of being safe, I think?” Rûsa tried her best to explain it, even with what limited words she knew.

“I felt much the same way after traveling hundreds of kilometers from my forest home to here.”

“Where did you live, my Lord?”

“Nan Elmoth, a grand forest that is far from Gondolin. I was born and lived my first eighty years of life there. Then I moved here to Gondolin, as my mother wanted to meet with my uncle and cousin again…”

“Why did she leave here? Eighty years is a long time, right?”

“… I don’t know. Traveling, I guess. Or she wanted to see the outside world after spending so long behind the walls. She moved here originally with my uncle and Idril from another home, but she was a free spirit and soon wanted to feel that sense of freedom again. That is how she ended up in Nan Elmoth and met my father.”

In the midst of the conversation, Rog carefully slipped out to leave them alone.

“He must have been a great man to marry her,” Rûsa said. “She was a Princess, right, and he the lord of the forest?”

“Yes.” Maeglin felt tongue-tied with the fibs he forced himself to tell her. On the one hand, much of it was true, Aredhel’s longing to see the open world again was exactly as it happened. On the other, his parents’ marriage was still a sore point with him despite their settling their differences later in life

“Where are they now? Did they visit you while we both were recovering in the Healing wings?”   

“They… are the Halls of Mandos since over an hundred years back. An accident claimed Mother soon after we arrived, a… a hunting spear was thrown wrong, I believe. Father couldn’t bear to live without her and followed her not long after.” This was true insofar as marriage went. Marriage among the Eldar was for life, according to both the decrees of Manwë and the innate nature of the Eldar; the dissolution of the bond, if it happened at all, led to suicide through wasting away in depression. Finwë was the only exception. (Although that had brought with its own problems, and it was said that the shadow of his first wife never really left his home, poisoning the family.)  

At least, that was what Maeglin knew. He had heard that Turgon had changed after losing his wife, becoming more closed-off with his own feelings and much more protective of his living family members. Idril had, before marrying Tuor, sometimes complained that her father still seemed to view her as a child at times. Maeglin had felt that too, especially now when Turgon seemed set on trying to match him up with a possible wife.

“Oh.” Rûsa was quiet at hearing this. “I am sorry for that. I wish I could have met them.”

She sounded like she wished she hadn’t brought up this, for bringing back painful memories. But how could she have known—Maeglin realized that he had never once spoken of his family to her, always concerned for her wellbeing at the expense of his own. _How odd…_ the thought passed through his mind but fled quickly.

“I think Father would have liked that you are a healer, at least. Mother always complained that we needed a personal healer in the family since Father was also a blacksmith—I learned the trade from him, actually.”

Oh, how Aredhel could look so cross at times whenever Maeglin had hurt himself in the forge as an apprentice, and at the rare times when Eöl himself had gotten injured. Maeglin could recall memories of how he had entered the forge as a toddler out of childish curiosity and Eöl quickly acting to remove him before something dangerous happened.  

He smiled in half-remembrance, seeing one such scene play out before him. For all of his awkwardness as a father, Eöl had tried his best with his small family and the Valar help anyone who were foolish to ask Maeglin whether Aredhel or himself had been abused by him, something that deeply angered the Elmothdrim. More than once, there had been fights between them and other Houses just because of a such loose comment.

“I… do not know much of my own parents, I am afraid,” Rûsa was saying. “My mother died… and Father is said to have killed himself soon after my begetting. In Angband childbirth is not a blessing but… but a _curse_.”

Even if she did not say the exact words of what had happened to her mother Maeglin understood what she meant. “I see. That explains why you are unfamiliar with what an actual family means, yes?”

“I don't even know if Father sired any other children apart from me, such things were never mentioned but it was… common knowledge among the slaves that… men like him were paired often with as many… as many women together to… to beget children… and Mother… she did not make it at my birth…”

She fell silent, overcome by emotion, and Maeglin moved on impulse. He reached out and enfolded her in his arms. She did not flinch once but returned it. For a long while they stood there, Maeglin stroking her vibrant red hair while she shivered into his chest.  

“Sometimes… in my nightmares… I see nothing but blood… blood on my hands… my face… everywhere… and the bodies of two Elves that I can not see the faces on yet I know who they must be…”

“There, there,” he murmured, comforting her as much as he could. This was not something he planned for when coming to meet her. She must have repressed her emotions, a holdover from Angband, repressed them such that she could only release it, let down her walls when she was with him. Yet who could blame her.

“The slave midwives were… were not even sure that I would survive at—at first… I was very weak as a newborn… I have always been s—smaller than others, even those who were born… around the same… the same time… I was never first to be fed, they p—pushed me from the food... I had to try and be smarter, stealing from those who got it… got it first...“   

That one explained that particular habit, at least. Left over from her early years.

“It is a good thing that you do not need to worry anymore, then. At least not when it comes to your own safety.”      

Awkward, yes, but Maeglin did not really know what else to say. Not after a such personal information she just had revealed. Who knew for how long she had been forced to bury this grief deep inside her, simply because as a slave she was not viewed as needing any information about her lineage.

“Rûsa? Are—Are you all right?”

She nodded, sniffing suddenly. It was clear that the crying had drained her energy, for now she seemed a lot more exhausted than before. Like how she once had been in Angband, with not enough rest and endless work as a slave healer.

“I’m sorry, breaking down like that,” she whispered in a low voice. “I shouldn’t do that all the time.”

“I understand. Habits like those are difficult to break. But you are making great progress—a month ago you would have flinched at contact.”

That was something Maeglin knew, he still had his own childhood habit of sometimes climbing up and run on the roofs of houses if he wanted to avoid the streets. He had found that he was able to spare a lot of time by such shortcuts, even if he nearly caused a heart attack for Turgon the first time the King saw him do this, one night when the winds were particularly strong and it was cold. But he was getting better at finding alternative routes through less crowded streets instead of taking to the roofs.

She nodded slightly at his words, remembering how unused to body contact she once had been.

“Do you know how hard it is to sew up a wound on a struggling slave, and when that slave is delirious with pain?” she asked him. “Broken nails are common among slaves—” she held up one of her hands, which contained perfectly cut and filed nails, to contrast between her past and current state. “—and they are not something you want near your eyes. I have good reasons to hate those eye-drops the healers insist I need to take. They come in needle-like tubes. I still can’t break that. Blindness was often caused by sharp things close to the eyes in Angband and that is a fate I wants to avoid. Blind slaves are not useful in many ways simply because they _can not_ see.”   

“Father insisted on eye protection when we worked in the forges,” Maeglin commented. “Out in the open air one could take risks but inside a closed building with no light but the fire and heated metal you could not risk anything. He had borrowed it from the Dwarves, I believe.” He noted that Rûsa looked pleased with such common-sense precautions.

“Thank you again for freeing me,” she said. “I may not have survived for long if you escaped. Idril and the other healers have mentioned that had I stayed there, I would most likely not have lived longer than a year at most, my body was slowly breaking down after a lifetime as a slave.”

“I would do it a second time.” Maeglin was sincere about this. “You deserve better than that.”

She smiled again and ducked her head. When she looked at him again, the light was thrown upon her neck in a different way than before—and Maeglin saw something.

“What’s that? On your neck?”

Rûsa shrugged—a first for her. “The healers told me it’s from my collar.” She traced the reddish circular mark, standing out against her pale skin, as she spoke. “They told me it was welded onto me. I could see why…”

Maeglin said nothing but nodded in sympathy. His own iron collar had been difficult to get off. Rog’s men hadn’t been too careful when they removed them. The memory of Rog cursing under his breath while trying to not cut into the important blood veins in the neck was something he still recalled weakly. Idril had admonished the Lord for being so foolish as to operate on them out there in the damp without any sort of medical instruments with him, using only a basic small saw and a few other things commonly used for smiths. The resulting infections from that event had nearly claimed them, among other health issues.

“They said it’ll fade with time, but I try not to think of it. I have worn the collar for nearly all my life, so I doubt that it will vanish quickly. The cloak helps.”

“Aha, I just remembered…” Maeglin released her to fumble about with his pouch, forgetting about Rûsa. He soon fished out the blue scarf he carried around, almost absentmindedly since purchase.

“A gift for you,” he explained as her face registered astonishment.  

“For—For me?”

“Yes.”

Maeglin helped her to wrap it around her neck, gently as he did not know how much her marks had healed and wanted to disturb them as little as possible.    

“The color… it reminds me of… of something I saw… long, long ago.” Rûsa was unsure whether she should mention the duel between the Dark Lord and the Elf King.

“Is it the sky?”

“No… something else… from before our first meeting… ”

Maeglin was about to ask her what she meant but one of his men called to him. They had finished unloading the wagons and were preparing to return to the mines for more ore.

“I’ll try and see you again,” he said, starting to move. When he felt her hand close over his wrist Maeglin stopped.

With her heart aflutter Rûsa stood up on her toes and gave him a small kiss, a chaste one on the cheek. “Thank you for the scarf,” she whispered.

“You are welcome.”

Then he was away, almost trotting as the wagons began their departure. Rûsa watched, caressing her gift for it was soothing on her skin, until he rounded the corner and left through the gate. Then she went back into the house.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

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~X~X~X~X~X~X~


End file.
